


Call Me Anything (But Alright)

by CassandraCaffrey



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Adult Losers Club (IT), Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Bill Denbrough is a Good Friend, Bodyswap, Everyone is Alive Except Georgie Denbrough, M/M, Oblivious Eddie Kaspbrak, Pining Richie Tozier, Richie Tozier is a Mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:54:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 47,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21681766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CassandraCaffrey/pseuds/CassandraCaffrey
Summary: It's been three months since the Losers defeated It. Three months since Eddie asked Richie if he could stay with him after he leaves Myra. Three months and Eddie still hasn't shown up and Richie isn't upset about it or anything, why would he be upset about it-And then he wakes to find he's swapped bodies with the one person he really wouldn't have wanted to have swapped bodies with.Yeah, it's official: Richie's life sucks.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 392
Kudos: 859





	1. Richie

“Three months,” Richie croaks. His beer leaves a ring of condescension on the table surface when he lifts it. Eddie would _hate_ that; he’d be forcing a coaster on him and lecturing him about lacquered surfaces if he was here. Maybe. “Well, I don’t actually know if he’d say that cause he _isn’t_ fucking _here._ ” 

“W-what was that last bit?”

Richie jerks his head up and the world tilts on its axis. “Nothin’. Talking to myself.”

Bill sighs from the couch beside him. He clearly cares for the coffee table as little as Richie does, judging by the way he has his bare feet propped up on it. _Disgusting,_ the Eddie in Richie’s mind complains. But Eddie’s not here and Bill keeps his hand that’s not holding his beer bottle resting loosely on Richie’s thigh in what Richie guesses is an attempt to show support, so Richie’s gonna let that slide. “Rich, I‘m sorry, but you’ve gotta give him time.” 

“Give who time?” Richie plays up obnoxious ignorance, takes another swig of beer. He’s lost track of how many bottles he’s already gone through tonight. It’s easier than being sincere.

Bill sighs again, stares at him with a gaze that has no business looking so wise. “Rich.”

“Billiam.”

“Rich… ardiam.”

Richie breaks immediately into a genuine wheeze, which is way better than crying like he’d thought he might. “And the award goes to D-d-denbrough for getting off the worst chuck of the night!” He slumps down against Bill’s shoulder and Bill is firm, warm, _here_ \- unlike a certain _someone_ Richie _definitely_ isn’t still thinking of.

Three months since Derry and defeating It. 

Three months since Eddie stuck his hands in the pockets of his hoodie, not quite meeting Richie’s eyes as he said he was going back to New York to break things off with his wife, and would he maybe be able to stay with Richie after? Just for a little bit? 

Three months since Richie had said _yeah! Yeah, sure, whatever you need, I’m here for you, man_ , and Eddie had hugged him tightly in response, breath hot against Richie’s neck as the rough bandage on his cheek bumped against Richie’s stubble, and Richie had thought, _oh_ no. 

Thought, _oh no, I really do still lo -_

Three months and Bill had been the one to move in after his divorce instead of Eddie who was, as far as Richie knew, still shacking up with Myra.

But like. Whatever. It’s not like Richie cares or anything. Not like Richie had immediately made up the cluttered storage room of his house into an actual minimalist spare bedroom or anything. It’s fine. What does he care if he spends his nights getting drunk with Bill watching _The Office_ reruns instead of spooning on the couch with Eddie? 

“Fuck.”

“What?”

“What?”

Bill shifts, sits up straighter so Richie’s head falls into his lap. A bit of Richie’s beer spills onto the floorboards at the same time, but whatever. “You’re t-thinking too much,” Bill says. His arm is snug around Richie’s shoulders.

Richie says “What the fuck does Eddie’s wife have that I don’t?” and immediately regrets it. Immediately wants to grab a throw pillow and scream into it so he doesn’t have to look at Bill right now. 

It’s not the fucking coming out Richie had ever considered. Not that he's been exactly coy around Bill with his disappointment that Eddie hasn't shown up on his doorstep yet, suitcases in hand. Some small part of him, the part of him he hates acknowledging the existence of because it's reckless and refuses to consider consquences, whispers to him that the Losers have known since Eddie clambered into a hammock with him, chattering away like a feral monkey and all Richie could do was stare in awe. That little part of him tells him he should have just fessed up already, and Richie kinda wishes he had listened to that voice now.

Instead of shoving him away or something, Bill tightens his arm around Richie. “I d-d-d… _fuck_ , I dunno.” Despite the stutter - or maybe because of it, because it’s what defines Bill for the Losers - his voice is strong. “You’re at least funny sometimes. B-bet Myra doesn’t have any good chucks.” 

Richie forces himself to breathe. “Yeah? You think?”

“Yeah,” Big Bill says. Strong. Richie definitely isn’t crying right now. 

\-----

The bedroom Richie wakes up in isn’t his own. 

He assumes he stumbled into the spare bedroom - Bill’s current bedroom - by mistake, or maybe Bill helped him in here because it was closer to the couch. Thinking of Bill makes Richie press his face into the pillow and groan, but it’s in a _good_ way, an “oh thank fuck, he still loves me, I didn’t weird him out, it’s _okay_ ”. Some of the tension Richie’s been holding onto for a solid thirty years is just _not there_ and Richie feels weirdly floaty about it, all disconnected from his physical body. He should buy Bill like, a gift-card or something to say thanks. 

The floaty disconnected feeling persists as Richie blearily raises his head from the - pink frilly pillowcase?

Uh. Okay. 

Richie’s never seen this pillowcase before; certainly not in his house, and maybe not ever in his lifetime, not unless he’s somehow been transported to his Great-Aunt Gina’s house circa 1992. He shoves himself up onto his elbows so he can study the pillowcase in more detail - would be easier without the weird blonde curtain hanging in front of his eyes… wait. 

Wait. 

This isn’t his or Bill’s pillow and this _isn’t his or Bill’s room_ , and the hand Richie just moved to touch the frills on the pillow? Definitely not his, unless Bill decided on a whim to shave all the hair from Richie’s knuckles and paint his fingernails a fetching shade of pastel beige. 

He moves each finger experimentally and the hand that isn't his responds like it is his. And with that, the disconnection from his physical senses Richie has been experiencing since he woke up takes a sharp right turn straight into dysphoria.

He sits up abruptly and everything about the movement is wrong. 

What the fuck? What the _fuck_?

There’s a wardrobe in the corner of this strange room and there’s a mirror on the wardrobe door and Richie needs to look at himself pronto because from where he’s currently staring, the view is _not_ positive.

“What the fuck what the fuck what the-!” He barely notices he’s chanting it aloud as he kicks at the bedcovers, barely notices his voice is working at a pitch higher than Richie would have thought possible as he stumbles to his feet, barely notices he’s wearing a dress which matches the pillowcase as he darts to the mirror.

He stares. He stares for a long time. 

And then he does what any sensible person would do in this situation. 

He screams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is from the bodyswap episode of Alvin and the Chipmunks, because of course it is.


	2. Eddie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh wow, after operating in quiet fandoms for a while I've been a little blown away with the response to that first chapter - so much so that I knocked this out when I should have been getting ready for work instead, oops!

Eddie is strong but Eddie is also tired. Bone-tired. Has started to drink three espressos before eight in the morning tired. Myra doesn’t normally wake until at least ten, and then she’ll have her uber account turned on during the afternoon so Eddie (hopefully) won’t have to interact with her when he walks through the door at six. 

It’s been three months and Eddie honestly thought he’d be out of here already. 

That had been the plan, when he left Derry. He’d jumped into the quarry with the others, weary and filthy and very pointedly not thinking about the risk of infection the water posed for his cheek and the raw cuts on his palms. Swam slow circles around Ben and Bev as they ducked underwater together and emerged blushing; watched as Richie and Stan tousled and splashed; and could only think _I love you_. Could only think, as lazily and knowing as the water lapping away the grime from his skin, _so this is what it’s like to love and to be loved_.

He debated taking his wedding ring off there and then, casting it into the quarry where it could rest on the sandy bed for eternity for all he cared. He didn’t in the end, because he didn’t want to leave a lasting reminder of Myra in this already cursed town, and also because he could pawn it off. Treat it as a nothing, as a mistake, rather than a symbol. 

And then Richie and Stan ganged up and tried to playfully drown Eddie together, so he had to abruptly stop thinking about adult responsibilities and start plotting how to get them back instead.

Three months later and the ring was still on his finger and he was still in New York, in the house his mother had insisted he bought, living with the woman his mother had insisted he marry. 

And god, was Eddie _tired_.

He had had daydreams, during those last days with the Losers in Derry - grand visions of him throwing the entire medicine cabinet out the window, telling Myra triumphantly: “I’m moving across the country to live with that comedian we used to watch - remember Trashmouth Tozier, with the stupid jokes and the coke-bottle glasses? Yeah, _him_ ”, and booking an impromptu flight to L.A. at the airport itself, ready to come stomping up to Richie’s front door and finally, _finally_ , attempt to find a home with someone he loved -

But none of that had happened, because Eddie was a goddamn risk analyst and when he left Derry he started thinking about logistics and statistics and papers and Myra herself, with her crocodile tears and her clingy fingers and the way those fingers had dug into him for way too long and the way he had let them. 

So. New plan. 

Get the divorce papers drawn up, avoid Myra as much as possible - no pretending that things aren't rough and he’s had enough, but appeasing her enough that she wasn’t going to kick up a fuss - and hit her with them only when he knows he’s copied all his files onto triple USBs and can escape with everything intact.

God, the last three months feel like three years. 

He fumbles with the coffee machine, beginning to organise his third expresso (it’s that kind of day) when Myra screams. She sounds like she’s discovered Bowers hiding out with a knife in the bathroom, and before Eddie can properly register what he’s doing he’s dropped the small china mug that came with the coffee machine and sprinted upstairs, taking them two at a time. 

Just because Eddie’s realised he’s wasted his life with her, doesn’t mean he should let her be _murdered_ or anything.

Myra’s still screaming when he gets upstairs, so Eddie throws open the door without waiting for an invitation. 

“Myra? Everything okay?!”

Myra immediately spins around - she was facing away from him, towards the wardrobe - and Eddie has never seen her like this. Never seen her display such wide-blown panic, not even when he’d been grabbing his suitcases ready to head to Derry and standing up to her for the first time in his life.

“E-Eddie? Eds? What the _fuck_!” Myra exclaims, and then, if possible, her big eyes get even wider. “Holy shit am I your _wife_?” 

‘Uh,” Eddie says. His arms hang loosely and uselessly at his sides.

Myra twists her head, staring into the wardrobe mirror again, then back to Eddie, then back again, like she’s trying out her best startled owl impression. Eddie thinks, weirdly enough, that Stan would be impressed. 

“OhmygodI’myour _wife_ ,” Myra says, and then she slaps a hand over her mouth, continuing all muffled through her fingers, “Bathroom, Eds, I need a bathroom, I’m gonna-” 

Finally, something Eddie can actually do! 

He quickly darts to the door of the en suite and opens it. Myra barges in a moment later, dropping to her knees in front of the toilet and dry-heaving. 

“Can I - can I get you anything?” Eddie says awkwardly. Hard not to be awkward when your hopefully-soon-to-be-ex-wife is having a panic attack over - an amnesia episode? Eddie doesn’t have a clue what’s going on but panic attacks he can deal with. He crouches beside her and holds her hair out of the way and tells her to breathe with him; slow, deep breathes that after a moment Myra thankfully echoes. 

“I’m good, I’m good,” she mutters into the toilet bowl after a few minutes, when her chest isn’t heaving quite so badly. “I mean I’m - I’m not good, I’m fucking freaking out here, but like - it’s fine.” She raises her head and her eyes and cheeks are glistening. 

Eddie, in a move more loving than he cares to admit, brushes his thumb over one of the tear tracks. “You sure?” 

Myra barks a laugh. Eddie’s never heard her sound like that, not ever - does Myra even laugh? She might have done when they were dating, something cloyingly sweet and fake. “I’m not sure of anything, trust me on that, not when I have-” She drops her gaze and, in a move that Eddie certainly doesn’t expect, grabs at her chest through her nightgown. “Okay, yeah, I’m not good, really not good, this is a real nightmare scenario-” she says quick, her voice rising in pitch again. 

“Hey, hey, Marty -” There’s a ringing cellphone from the bedroom; Eddie ignores it. “C’mon, let’s get you up - do you want me to ring Hugo?” 

“Who the fuck is Hugo?” Myra snaps, then screws her eyes shut tight. “Okay Eds, Eddie, Eddie Spaghetti, you’re not gonna believe this, man, but I’m - I’m not Myra. God, not even _close_ -” 

Amnesia, Eddie guesses, the alarm flicking deep in his stomach now curdled with dread. Maybe she fell out of bed and hit her head? But Eddie is an early riser and he didn’t hear any thud from upstairs -

The cellphone rings again.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Myra says, and uses Eddie’s shoulder as a leverage to clamber to her feet. Now that Eddie thinks about it, he’s never heard her swear before in his life, let alone this much in ten minutes. 

He stumbles into the bedroom in time to see Myra snatch up the phone with both hands and answer it. 

“Hey! Hey, uh…” Myra falters. Eddie’s not close enough to hear distinct words but there’s a lot of yelling going down the other end. Not knowing what to do - other than maybe get his phone and call their doctor, the aforementioned Hugo whom Myra seems to have completely forgotten -, he sits on the bed close to her; she reaches out and grasps at his wrist as if her life depends on it. 

“No, _no_ , I’m not going to hand the phone to Eddie!” Myra says abruptly down the line, momentarily silencing whoever’s shouting at her; Eddie still can’t hear words but the voice has been vaguely familiar. “This is between me and you, okay, and - is Bill there? Guy who lives with me, Bill? Put Bill on the phone!” 

Eddie starts and Myra grips his wrist tighter. Eddie’s thinking about Bill Denbrough, of course he is, but there are a lot of Bills in the world, and this won’t be - 

It’s Bill Denbrough. Eddie would recognise and follow that voice anywhere. 

“What the fuck?” 

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Myra says to him - to Eddie - and then turns her attention back to the phone. “Bill, Big Bill, Billiam, you gotta calm her down before she - yeah it’s _me_ , who the hell else would it be? Yeah, this is - whatever the _fuck_ this is it’s happening, I’m gonna call Mike and see if he knows anything - what do you mean you don’t believe me?! Okay, okay, listen up - Derry, It, you’re lucky we’re not measuring dicks, let’s kill this fucking clown. Believe me now?” Stammering down the other end of the line. “Yeah, I know, I’m freaking out, I’ve got Eddie here and I haven’t - haven’t said anything to him yet-” More stammering. “Yeah I _know_ , just - help me out here, keep her calm and keep her in the house - I owe you this, man, okay, I gotta deal with Eds now, love you.” 

Myra ends the call and drops the phone to the bedside table. “Writers,” she groans, rubbing the bridge of her nose and going momentarily cross-eyed as if expecting to find glasses there. 

Eddie feels like he’s the one on the verge of a panic attack now. 

He doesn’t know if he can say it. Doesn’t know if he can force the name up past his throat. 

“R… Richie?”

Apparently he can. 

“Bingo,” Myra says with a crooked grin that’s entirely out of place on her features, and promptly bursts into fresh tears.


	3. Richie (+ Bill)

“Eds, I take back everything I’ve ever said about your mom,” Richie mutters into his fourth tissue. “Y’know, everytime I said I wanted to be inside her? This is _not_ what I meant.”

The other three tissues lie crumpled up in a little heap on the kitchen table before him, and possibly will be joined by several more if Richie can’t get a hold on these damn hormones. That’s what he’s guessing this is, anyway - he’s been hit with an overdose of estrogen, no wonder he’s all weepy. 

Eddie’s found him the tissue box, and also Myra’s silk dressing gown, which was nice of him. Richie huddles into it as best he can but his shoulders - Myra’s shoulders - don’t hunch comfortably in the way his own do. Figures she’d have better posture than him. 

Eddie himself hasn’t spoken since Richie began this cry fest. He’s seated at the table directly across from Ritchie, staring at him like any second now Richie’s going to go “Ha! Fooled you! It was me, Myra, all along!” or his skin is suddenly going to take on the hue of white face paint. At least Eddie’s playing the house husband role nicely, if Richie’s going to have to play at being Mrs Kaspbrak the Second. 

Bile rises abruptly in his throat again. He forces it back down. 

“You gonna say anything, Eds?” Richie settles for saying instead, trying out a grin. It tugs uncomfortably at the corners of his mouth - Myra must not be a big smiler. “Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I kinda don’t sound like myself when I talk and I’m still very freaked out about it.” 

“Don’t call me-” Eddie says automatically and then jerks, like the puppet-master’s tugged on his strings. “God, it’s really you, isn’t it?”

“Here in the flesh!” Richie sings out, spreading his arms wide with a flourish. Oh, bad idea, too exposed, time to hunch forward on himself again. “Well, like. Your wife’s flesh. Fuck, that makes me sound like a cannibal or something. Or like whatshisname from _Psycho_.”

“So, Myra’s…?” 

“Me,” Richie confirms with a wince, and the thought of how well that might go threatens to send him into another flood of tears. “At least, that’s what I assumed from all the yelling that was going on there. Bill’s got it under control, though! I think.”

Eddie nods slowly. “Yeah, that’s… that’s good there’s someone there.” 

“Yeah.” Richie discards his current tissue onto the pile and tugs a fresh one from the box. Eddie’s fallen quiet again and as much as Richie is hating his new voice, the one thing that Richie has always hated are the silent moments between the two of them. He glances aimlessly around the kitchen. The marble black of the counters break up the stark whiteness of the rest of the room. There’s a photo stuck on the fridge - Richie can actually make it out from here, and he automatically goes to poke at his glasses before realising he must have 20/20 vision now. That’s one positive. Not so positive is that the photo is of Eddie and Myra - Eddie in a tie, Myra wearing a dark dress or blouse. Eddie’s arm around Myra’s shoulders, both smiling at the camera. It looks, Richie wants to believe, a little bit wooden, a little bit too posed. 

Richie has of course stalked Eddie’s online presence (along with the rest of the Losers’) but there must be so many photos of Eddie he hasn’t seen yet in this house. So many little things Eddie’s gathered over the years that Richie doesn’t know about. 

He looks away from the fridge. “So this is, uh. This is nice. I like those cabinets.”

“Oh - yeah, we put those in a few years ago,” Eddie says, vague and unfocused, still staring at Richie too intently for him to be comfortable. “Mommy wasn’t a fan of the original-” 

“Mommy?” Richie interrupts, because of course he does, and Eddie goes all flushed and frowning and - god, he goes all _cute_ like he always did when Richie teased him, back when they were kids. Hell, even back in Derry three months ago. 

“Shut up Rich, I’m fucking confused right now.” Eddie groans and leans forward, elbows on the table as he rubs at his temples. 

“Oh, and you think I’m not?” Richie waves a hand up and down at himself, gesturing to all of - this. There’s a lot of him to gesture to now. There’s still blonde hair in front of his eyes, blocking his vision; he attempts to tuck it behind his ears. “Last night I was in my own house, chilling out in front of the tv with our good friend Bill, and next thing I know I’m waking up in this room I’ve never seen before and _you’re_ suddenly there and I happen to have Freaky Friday’d with your wife?”

“It’s Sunday.” 

“Spooky Sunday’d, then!” 

Eddie groans again. “That’s really the adjective you’re going to go with?” He mutters, and then he sits back up. “Hey, maybe you’re onto something! Maybe it’s just a one day thing?” 

Richie, up until this point, hasn’t even considered the possibility that there might be a time limit on this thing. “Okay, I’m liking the sound of that!” 

“Either that or you and Myra will have to see from one another’s perspectives and... gain life lessons?”

“Liking the sound of that _way_ less, Eds,” Richie says dismissively, but there’s a real sudden fear there now. “I don’t even _know_ Myra! How the fuck would I be able to learn a life lesson here?” 

“Maybe it’s the universe’s way of getting you to tone down the sexism in your routines?” Eddie suggests after a moment.

Richie rolls his eyes. “Then it should be my writers who got swapped with Myra, not me!”

“Hmmm.” Eddie’s fingers drum on the table. “Could be a witch who watched your stand-up set and didn’t realise you had other people writing your stuff?” 

The mention of ‘witch’ sparks off thoughts of magic and occultism and, ultimately leads to - 

“Mike!” Richie exclaims abruptly, making Eddie jump. “I was gonna ring Mike about this, this kind of stuff is what he’s spent years studying!”

“Shit, good idea!” Eddie slides his chair back and stands up, grabbing for his phone where it had been charging on the kitchen counter. “You wanna call him, or should I?”

Richie’s hand is already reaching for the pocket of his jeans, where his phone usually resides, before his hand touches silk and he remembers. “I left Myra’s phone upstairs.”

“Okay, I’ll leave the calling to you.” Eddie hands him the phone. “I’m going to make myself a coffee, want anything?” 

“Uh - yeah, milk and two sugars, if you have that.” Richie stares down at Eddie’s lockscreen; it’s a selfie Bev took of her and her fellow Losers before they left Derry. Richie has an arm slung around Ben’s shoulders holding up a peace sign, his other arm around Eddie’s waist, and Eddie is looking at him instead of the camera. Richie has the same photo as his own lockscreen. 

And then the lockscreen goes black and reflects Myra’s face. Richie flinches and closes his eyes.

“Urgh, how many cavities did you end up getting in your lifetime?” There’s a banging of cabinet doors and a chink of china. 

Richie opens his eyes and hits the lockscreen button, revealing the much more welcome image of the Losers again. 

“Hey, Eds, what’s your passcode?” 

“Oh, right.” Eddie rattles off the numbers and Richie types them in slowly, trying not to focus too much on the sight of his painted fingernails doing the typing. He’s trying not to focus so much that it isn’t until the phone unlocks that he realises what the numbers were.

“Are you kidding me?”

“What?” Eddie’s at his side immediately, hovering over his shoulder. “Something wrong?”

Richie doesn’t want to say it. Saying it will make it real, somehow, even before Eddie no doubt dismisses it. Maybe it’s coincidence. Maybe it’s the date Eddie married Myra. Maybe it’s the date Sonia Kaspbrak finally kicked the bucket. 

He says it anyway. 

“You use my fucking birthday as your passcode?”

Eddie stiffens besides him, and immediately Richie knows that Eddie didn’t know. He doesn’t know if that makes it better or worse. 

“Oh fuck. That _is_ your birthday,” Eddie says, sounding strangely distant. “I’d forgotten.” 

“It’s cool, man, we forgot a lot of shit.” Yet hope, unexpected and raw, bubbles away somewhere deep in his now-plentiful chest - hope for something Richie had wished for since he was thirteen but never really thought he might have. Richie will have to study that little detail when he’s back in his own body, which hopefully won’t be too long if he can get Mike on the case. He finds the number easily enough listed under MIKEY HANLON (NEVERFORGET) and while it begins to ring, asks Eddie casually: “So, how’s that coffee coming along?”

xxxxxxx

Myra Jane Kaspbrak née Wilkes is not having a good day. 

Bill knows this because Myra has told him so at least fifty times in the last hour, which averages out to nearly once a minute, which is a speed Bill would find admirable if he wasn’t the one being forced to listen to it.

“He doesn’t wash under his fingernails!” Myra is whining, her hands spread in front of her face. Bill might have thought Richie was doing a particularly intriguing bit if he hadn’t been on the phone to the real Richie earlier. “There’s dirt under there! Do you know how much bacteria that could be, Bill? Bill? Are you listening to me?” 

Bill had told Richie to let Eddie take his time, but right now he was starting to think the better option might have been to force Eddie onto the plane from Bangor to L.A. instead of letting him return to New York. 

“I’m listening,” Bill confirms, because what else can he do? 

“Your friend is disgusting and you should be ashamed,” Myra says bluntly. She’s still studying her hands, turning them this way and that, crooking a finger occasionally like she can’t quite believe she can. “And he should do something about all this body hair. It can’t be healthy.”

Bill mumbles something incoherent, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, then asks: “Can I get you more toast?”

“That would be quite lovely, thank you,” Myra says with a nod, glasses slipping down her nose. She pushes them back and then she folds her arms on the table, drops her head onto them, and screams into the tabletop.

It’s an improvement to her earlier non-muffled screams, Bill supposes.


	4. Eddie

Mike, thank god, believes them almost immediately. 

“I don’t know if I’ve ever come across anything like this,” he says over the phone’s speaker, “but it sounds possibly like wish fulfilment magic - neither of you have made any wishes recently? Shooting stars, broken wishbones, throwing coins into fountains, that kind of thing?”

Eddie and Richie exchange glances. Richie looks as blank as Eddie feels - and isn’t that bizarre, that Eddie is beginning to pick up on Richie’s expressions despite the fact he’s wearing the face of Eddie’s hopefully-soon-to-be-ex-wife. 

“Nope, can’t think of anything,” Richie says. He takes a sip of his coffee and grimaces with a wrinkle of his nose. “That being said, I was pretty drunk last night? I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t waste a wish wanting to be Eddie’s new mom though.” 

“Beep beep!” Eddie shoots back, kicking at Richie under the table. Richie winces and Eddie immediately tenses, ready for him to snap at him, to start crying “Eddie-bear, how could you-!” 

But all Richie does is laugh in that way that’s so unlike Myra. “Take it that means Eds didn’t wish for that either!” 

“Eddie?” Mike asks, seeking confirmation directly from the source.

“Yeah, sorry!” Eddie says quickly. “I’ve got nothing, and unlike a certain someone I wasn’t drinking last night.” 

Richie mouths _Fuck you, bro_ across the table and flips him off for good measure, but he’s still smiling. He makes Myra look almost pleasant, and that’s a road Eddie sure doesn’t want to go down right now or maybe ever.

Mike hums - Eddie can imagine him already hitting up google, or maybe flipping through a book he took along with him on his travels that he couldn’t bear to be parted from. Eddie has been struggling to keep up with the Losers’ group chat recently but he thinks Mike might currently be in Louisiana. “Okay, I’m going to investigate this a bit more - luckily there’s a lot of bookstores on the occult here in New Orleans. I could’ve done with some of these back in Derry.”

Mike says it in good humour, but it only makes Eddie wish he was in New Orleans too so he could envelope Mike in a tight hug right now - 

nope, _nope_ , hold it right there, Eds! If Mike is right and this is wish magic of some sort, Eddie’s not going to be making any more wishes for the time being, not even in the safety of his own mind. 

“Thanks for the help, Mikey,” Richie is saying. “I’ll owe you one if you can get me back to my studly self without the need for any personal reflection.” 

Mike laughs, deep and full-bodied. “Bit of personal reflection might do you good, Trashmouth! I’ll try my best and let you know. Love you both.”

Eddie and Richie echo the sentiment and then the phone call ends and it’s just the two of them again.

“Right!” Richie says brightly - a false blustery kind of brightness -, pushing the nearly-full coffee mug to one side. “First thing’s first, this tastes horrible - I think I’ve got her tastebuds, too. Please tell me her favourite snack isn’t, like, dried kale or something.” 

Myra had tried to get in on the kale trend back in the early 2010s and had lasted a week. Eddie still has kale smoothies on the regular but that’s not something Richie needs to know. “You’re safe there.”

“Thank fuck,” Richie says. “I’m going to raid your wardrobe.” 

“Wait, what?”

“Look, Eds, the dressing gown is nice and the dress really grows on you after a while, but there’s only so much of it a guy can take.” Richie stands up, fumbling with the sash around his middle. “Does Myra own jeans? Does this ass even fit into jeans?”

“Hey!” Eddie protests, but only mildly. “That’s my wife you’re talking about.”

He meant it as a joke - he doesn’t expect Richie’s face to suddenly fall, all pretense of confidence vanishing. 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Richie says flatly, heading towards the stairs. “Anyway, your wife needs to go figure out how to pack these puppies into a damn bra.” 

“Rich, I didn’t mean -”

Eddie doesn’t know what he meant. He doesn’t know what he said wrong. 

“My bedroom’s on the right,” he says instead. “Opposite the hallway from Myra’s.” 

Richie pauses at the foot of the steps, one hand on the railing. “You guys don’t share the same room?”

“Nope,” Eddie says. “Not since Derry.” He doesn’t bother to explain that, even before Derry, he would often sleep in the spare room anyway, having purposefully arranged late meetings with clients so he would arrive home to find Myra already snoring away. It had simply become a more permanent solution once he had determined to end things for good. 

Wow, Eddie really should have realised sooner he wanted out of this relationship.

“Huh,” is all Richie says before going upstairs.

Eddie pulls his phone over, unlocks it again - how the hell did he ever forget this number was Richie’s birthday, he thought he’d chosen it at random to avoid the risk of Myra snooping into his details. He brings up the photos from the last days of the Derry trip, after they’d defeated Pennywise. There’s a variety of selfies Eddie had attempted to take himself, a few group shots he’d saved that the others had posted in the chat, and, after Richie temporarily stole the phone off him and held it tauntingly above his head, a number of shots of Eddie scowling up into the camera lens. 

Eddie skips through these and ends up on a photo of himself with Richie. Stan had secretly taken it without either of them knowing, and other than his lockscreen group photo this one is Eddie’s favourite - the two of them are around the back of the townhouse, some distance from the camera. The angle only shows Eddie’s face as he hugs Ritchie, but Eddie looks happier in this single photo than he does in any photo currently in his house. If he’d known Stan had been snapping away during Eddie’s quiet request to temporarily move in with Richie, Eddie would have tackled him on the spot, but he’s glad he has this. It reminds him that there’s something he’s working towards, a life where he gets to feel that same happiness outside the one he’s built for himself here in New York.

Right now he wishes, more so than ever, that he could see Richie’s face in this photo, that he knew if Richie was as eager about this future as Eddie was. 

“Hey, Eds!” The man himself calls. Eddie gives a start and quickly hits the back button. “Eds, come up here for a sec, would ya?” 

“Yeah, gimme a minute!” Eddie yells back, shoving the phone into his pocket before trudging upstairs.

He doesn’t know what to expect when he gets to the top, but it certainly isn’t Myra’s bedroom door flung wide open to reveal Richie beside the bed with hands on hips and absolutely nothing covering his top half.

“What the fuck! Richard!” Eddie spins in the opposite direction, eyes darting to the floor, ceiling, _anywhere_ else. “Why aren’t you wearing any clothes! Put some clothes on!”

“Oh, I’m sorry, is this a surprise to you?” Richie says from behind him, voice dripping with 100% Trashmouth mockery. Fuck, Eddie _has_ somehow upset him, why can't Richie ever be straightforward and explain how for once in his life? “I just thought, you know, since I was your _wife_ and all, you would have seen it all already!”

“Breaking news, asshole!” Eddie swings back. “Marty’s always refused to undress in the same room as me, especially while the main light’s switched on! Why do you think she insisted on getting a house with an en suite?”

“What, seriously?” Eddie will take a startled Richie over a purposefully taunting one any day but he’s experiencing whiplash now. “You’re literally _married!_ ”

“My marriage sucked, Rich, what do you expect? That we were a kinky swingers couple? Went to a nudist beach on weekends?”

“Okay, I get it!” Richie snaps. Eddie is about to ask if he’s covered up when Richie adds, “remind me not tell you about Bill and my Naked Tuesdays.”

“ _What,_ ” Eddie says, and swivels around before he can stop himself. 

Richie is still topless but at least he’s clutching the dressing gown to his chest with one arm. “Made you look. Now, help me with this bra?” From his other hand is dangling the said undergarment.

Eddie doesn't have much experience with this kind of thing. He should have been more adventurous in college. “How do you expect me to help?” 

“Can’t reach behind me,” Richie explains with a shrug. He turns away, and Myra’s back is so much paler than Eddie remembers. He vaguely recalls something about her requesting money for a tan for their wedding. “C’mon, help a guy out?” 

Eddie groans, but he can’t exactly refuse at this point. 

“Here, hold on a sec, let me-” Richie drops the dressing gown. It pools at his feet, and Eddie tries to focus on that so he doesn’t have to watch Richie forcing the straps up over his shoulders. At least he’s wearing jeans on his lower half - Myra must have had a pair tucked away after all. They stretch tight across the hips in a way that Eddie is sure can't be comfortable.

“Okay, I think I’m good, you just gotta clasp it,” Richie says, letting his hands drop to his hips. “You got that?”

Eddie steps forward hesitantly, nearly tangling his feet in the dressing gown as he reaches for either end of the bra - his hands are shaking, like they were when he reached for Myra for the first time on their wedding night. They had been a traditional couple in every sense of the word - again, maybe Eddie should have been more adventurous in college. That night and the occasional night since Myra had always insisted on lights out and all activity taking place under the covers. The only time he had seen her back bared like this, she had been pointing out a mole on her left shoulder she was worried about. The mole is still there, he notices now.

“Don’t freak out,” Richie says. His shoulders rise and fall with his breathing, and Eddie realises with a start that his words are as much for himself as they are for Eddie. "Not like I can get anyone else right now." His voice rises unnecessarily, and he sounds nothing like Princess Leia as he intones: "Help me Eddie-wan Kaspobi, you're my only hope."

“I’m not freaking out!” Eddie says firmly, and fumblingly slides the hooks into place. His knuckles brush against Richie’s back as he does so and he can _feel_ as Richie’s breath hitches beneath them. 

Eddie is forty years old, planning to divorce his wife and flee to the other side of the country to live with his best friend, and instead he’s helping his best friend with his wife’s bra and, most absurdly, fighting the urge to press a kiss to his bare spine.

Eddie thought he was fucked when he was facing off against a killer clown from his childhood. Somehow this feels much, much worse.


	5. Richie

Newsflash: Richard Wentworth Tozier is a fucking hypocrite. 

Eddie should have known this before leaving him alone with the run of his and Myra’s bedrooms, now that Richie’s no longer going to start crying (hopefully) and is instead set on the simple task of finding a shirt to wear that won’t make him feel like he wants to die every time he so much as glances down or passes a vaguely reflective surface (hypothetically speaking). That task doesn’t take too long; there are a few brightly-patterned shirts unexpectedly hanging right at the back of Eddie’s wardrobe which Richie eagerly makes a grab for. The one he chooses is a little tight around his armpits and hangs weirdly over his torso - considering it’s, y’know, not his - but he matches it with a plain shirt of Myra’s underneath and it does the trick. Sure, he looks a little like a mom who names her kids Jaedan and Bethany and shows up to their soccer practice with a cooler filled to the brim with orange slices, but he looks a whole lot less like the Myra he’s seen in photos. Richie can roll with this. 

So he gets on with his main goal: immediately searching through the upper floor to try and figure out the truth behind the Kaspbrak’s marriage, since, as much as he wants to, Richie is not going to outright ask Eddie any of the following questions: “so, is this divorce happening or not? Are you still thinking of joining me in L.A.? Does Myra know? Have you backtracked? Do you want to try and work things out with her? Where the hell do I fit into this?”

If it was anyone else Richie could try to play it off as simple curiosity, a concerned friend, but not to Eddie. Not without revealing his own big fat secrets, the ones unexpectedly thrown his way after the clown induced amnesia wore off. 

“Hey, here’s a good chuck for you, Eds! I’m straight now. Get it? Because I was gay but now I’m a woman? And here’s another chuck for you! I used to doodle ‘Richie Kaspbrak’ with little hearts around it and then eat the paper to make sure no-one would ever know. I’ve got a gut lined with post-it note glue. Crazy, right? Still wanna come live with me?”

Again: Richie Tozier is a hypocrite. Richie is used to shoving down the parts of himself he doesn’t want to talk about and keeping them all locked up in his chest - the sound of his own voice is as much as a distraction as it is a personality trait - but Richie can’t stand others doing the same. He can’t have others keeping secrets from him. His past relationships had always suffered from it. Richie suspected it was one of the reasons he loved the Losers as much as he did - their complete and utter openness with each other made it easy to breathe in a way that was completely alien in any other company. Even half-admitting his own deep secret to Bill had been liberating, and it was stupid that Richie hadn’t expected that, and - 

Richie drops the photo of Sonia Kaspbrak he had found in the top drawer of Eddie’s dresser. Lucky for him, the bedroom is carpeted and the frame bounces easily. Unlucky for him, Richie is suddenly horrifically afraid that he might be the reason Myra and him are in this mess. 

What was it he had said to Bill last night? Like, the _exact_ words?

“Eds!” Richie practically skids down the stairs. “I need your phone again.”

Eddie, sitting with his laptop out and busy typing away, gives a start like Richie’s like, a wild dog or something who just barged into his home. Nevertheless, he pushes his phone across the table towards him. “Uh - yeah, sure.” 

“Thanks, man!” Richie snatches it up. “Just - remembered something I had to talk to Bill about. I’ll take this back upstairs?” 

Richie leaves before Eddie can get a chance to reply. There are five missed calls from Trashmouth Tozier, which makes Richie’s heart ache a little - it shouldn’t, Eddie had given Mike’s contact number a nickname too. It also means Eddie has been ignoring Myra’s calls, but that’s understandable given the circumstances. Not like it means anything. 

Richie shuts the door to Eddie’s bedroom and flops onto the bed, taking a moment to recover himself from rushing up and down the stairs. He’s going to need to start - urgh - exercising more if he’s stuck like this. The room is practically barren - maybe Richie had the right idea when he went for the minimalist approach in his own spare room. There’s a stack of Denbrough novels on the bedside table, a lace doily on the dresser, and that’s pretty much it. 

During his impromptu search Richie found most of Eddie’s belongings were stuffed behind drawers. Richie thinks back to Eddie’s bedroom when they were kids - comics untidily stacked in piles along the wall, a shelf covered in weird rocks found in the quarry, blu-tacked photos and drawings stuck above his bed. Maybe it’s just that Eddie’s a grown man now, but maybe it’s that he hasn’t been allowed to spread up and take space like he would as a kid. The pillows smell different too, like the adult Eddie downstairs, like Eddie had when he hugged Richie behind the townhouse. 

Richie’s not here to pine over Eddie. He’s here to get himself the fuck out of this situation. 

Thankfully, Bill answers at first ring. 

“Eddie?” 

“No, it’s me,” Richie says, and then, acutely aware of how much he sounds unlike himself, “You know, the _actual_ Richie, not the imitation product you’ve got back home that looks like me. Accept no substitutes, et cetera.”

Bill groans. Richie can imagine him rubbing his temples like he does when he’s stressed. “This is so w-weird.” 

“Tell me about it, stud,” Richie agrees. “How’s Mrs K treating you?”

“She’s sleeping off your hangover.” Another groan. “I was enjoying some quiet, t-til you rang. You know she woke me shrieking at five? T-t-hought you were having another-” 

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Richie says quickly - he’s in no mood to discuss night terrors. “Look, I think I said something to you last night about Myra - before this whole thing went down - and I need to know if I said anything else.” 

“Bill?” Richie says a moment later, because Bill has gone quiet down the phone. 

“I’m thinking,” Bill says, finally, and Richie’s stomach clenches. The hand not holding the phone to his ear claws at the bedsheets. “You were missing Eddie.” 

“That’s not news,” Richie says without thinking and hates his stupid trashmouth for letting himself be vulnerable. 

“You w-wanted to know what Myra had that you didn’t,” Bill continues, as if he hadn’t heard Richie. “You s-started s-snoring after t-that, so I left you on the couch.” 

Richie waits for more, but Bill seems to have finished. “That’s it? I didn’t wish to be her, or anything?” 

“Why would you want to?” Bill replies. He sounds genuinely bewildered, which is a good sign.

Richie goes to fidget with his glasses, remembering too late that he’s not wearing any. He settles instead for twining a strand of hair around his fingers, now he has hair long enough to do so. “Cause - cause it would be a way to get closer to -”

He can’t get Eddie’s name out. Fuck. He thought he was done with the wanting to cry. 

Lucky for Richie, Bill is a good friend and picks up what’s going unsaid. 

“Oh! Oh, right,” he says. “No, you didn’t say anything like t-that. Not unless you were sleep-t-talking.”

Richie doesn’t know whether to be relieved or frustrated. On the one hand - god, he would have hated to go downstairs and say “so, turns out the reason I swapped bodies with your wife is because I’m jealous of her. Why am I jealous of her? Well, I’ve been secretly in love with you for most of my life”, probably with added finger guns to lighten the mood - but on the other, he’s back to square one. He’s still stuck in bras and jeggings with no currently foreseeable way out. 

He may have fought off a homicidal alien clown on multiple occasions but now it’s official: Richie’s life absolutely fucking sucks. 

“Hey, Big Bill?” he says, interrupting Bill’s story of how Myra threatened him with a kitchen knife. “I gotta go, but I’ll call you later for a full update, kay? Thanks for - all of this.” 

“I owed you one for l-letting me stay with you,” Bill says, sincere. “This is me paying it back.”

They say their goodbyes. Richie considers reading through Eddie’s emails, with their potentially far-more revealing results than the Kaspbrak bedrooms had to offer, but he doesn’t - he might be a hypocrite, but he has some honour, you know? 

When he returns downstairs, Eddie immediately glances up from the laptop at him. “How’s Myra?” 

Ritchie doesn’t know Myra - not personality-wise, at least, he’s getting to know her physically a hell of a lot closer than he would ever want to - but he’s really grown to hate hearing her name. Maybe the actual Myra is a cool person, and her and Eddie have just been having trouble clicking. Whatever. Ritchie needs a distraction and he needs one now. It's not running if he's taking advantage of the current situation. 

“Hey, Eddie Spaghetti! Let’s get the fuck out of here.”


	6. Myra

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and now for the perspective of the character you've all been waiting for! (or; time to try my hand at writing a character who appears for only one brief chapter in the novel and like two minutes in the 2019 film)

Myra Jane Kaspbrak née Wilkes is still not having a good day. 

She had gone through the usual tricks after waking up for the first time and discovering her predicament - pinched her arms, pinched her cheeks, even tried clicking her heels three times while repeating “there’s no place like home” because surely if it worked for Dorothy Gale it might work for her? 

The second time she wakes up, she rolls onto her back, blinks up at the ceiling through bleary eyes, and when the plaster above her remains blurred she mutters “damn” in a voice which rumbles scratchily in the base of her throat. 

Myra hates this. Hates every inch of this, from the top of Trashmouth Tozier’s greasy hair to his stupidly big feet. Like any woman, she wouldn’t have minded waking up in a better body - some pretty actress with a perfect figure would have made a nice change - but a crass and scruffy comedian who’d recently suffered a nervous breakdown on stage was far from her idea of ‘better’. 

At least she wakes in a bed this time, rather than the couch. 

Myra is sorely tempted to let her eyes close and drift back to sleep - maybe waking for a third time will be the charm, and she’ll find herself home again. Instead, she forces herself to sit up and stretch. She nearly pulls a muscle in her back in the process and bites down on her tongue - his tongue - to stop herself from wincing. 

She won’t allow herself to think about it. Won’t let herself panic and lose control like she already has earlier. She’s already apologised to famous author Bill Denbrough for pulling a knife on him, but in her defence, she had woken up in a strange house and there was a strange man approaching her. What woman _wouldn’t_ turn to self-defence in that situation?

She stumbles her way out of Tozier’s bedroom and into the bathroom, where she takes care of business. She’s already thanked Bill Denbrough for helping her out in that department earlier, even if his stuttered instructions had become near-indecipherable. If Myra has one thing she prides herself on, it’s her practicality, and it’s not until she’s uncapping the soap dispenser and pouring as much soap as she can fit into her left hand that she glances up and meets Tozier’s reflection in the mirror. The urge to scream again bubbles deep in her chest. She forces it down. Her throat already feels rough - probably because her first reaction on discovering she was no longer herself was the unexpected lurching of her stomach before she promptly threw up onto the kitchen tiles, which sent her into a frenzied worry that she was ill before Bill managed to explain it was a natural reaction of Tozier's - and probably partly due to Tozier's hangover lingering around. Probably also, and Myra is less willing to admit to this, due to her own previous screams which had seemed uncontrollable at the time.

Myra Jane Kaspbrak née Wilkes is a practical woman. She may have failed dramatically this morning, but from now on she is going to approach this impossible situation as practically as she can. 

So she studies Richie Tozier’s face in the mirror through the dirty lenses of his glasses, and she wipes away the dried trail of drool falling from the corner of his mouth, and she scratches at her stubbly jaw and considers an attempt at shaving. She wasn’t joking when she had said earlier that Tozier was in disgusting condition. He was entirely unlike her Eddie, who prided himself on excellent hygiene. Perhaps if Myra had ended up in Eddie’s body instead, she could at least have rested easy knowing she couldn’t possibly be diseased. 

But life doesn’t work that way, and instead she’s stuck in the body of a man she’s never met, in a city she’s never visited, and she’s stuck wishing Tozier had scrubbed every inch of his skin before she was magically transported into it. 

Myra glares at Tozier as if the man himself is there in the mirror and decides that, since there’s no way he can do the job himself if he’s currently across the country in her own skin (she’s not going to even touch the thought of what he might be getting up to), she will have to do the job herself. 

First, to find a satisfactory towel. The door to Bill’s bedroom is wide open and there’s soft snoring coming from the bed. Myra is tempted to wake him and ask, but he has been nothing but good to her so far. He had cleaned up after her, made her endless tea and toast, let her rant, and now that she was being practical she could admit to herself a great deal of respect for him. 

He was still an idiot for breaking things off with Audra Phillips, though. Myra wasn’t a fan but, after all, Audra was a celebrity and Bill was only an author. Myra had bought a magazine with their wedding photos years ago and it was her first time hearing about Bill Denbrough. Without Audra at his side to bring him into the public eye, it was only going to be downhill for him from here. 

She tries a few cupboards, eventually stumbling upon a laundry room just off the kitchen with a rack of folded linen. She grabs a couple of towels and a bathmat and treads as lightly as she can back to the bathroom, and only there does she allow herself to confront her next action: taking off her clothes. 

Tozier’s clothes hit the floor. Disgusting that Tozier didn’t wear underwear beneath those sweatpants, but really, what was Myra expecting? She’s operating outside her current body now, studying it as an object to be cleaned, preferably with a wire scrubbing brush, rather than something physically attached to her. She moves in front of the cabinet mirror, hands on hips, determined to seek out the most problematic areas and attack those first. 

Richie Tozier, it turns out, isn’t too bad under those ratty clothes. Too much hair for sure - no wonder Myra has been so itchy - and a bit of a soft stomach, but Myra can hardly comment on that. But his arms are surprisingly toned, the way Eddie’s look when he wears shorter sleeves in summer, and his shoulders are nicely broad in an old-time movie star way. 

The mirror doesn’t show lower than Tozier’s upper torso. Myra will deal with lower when she’s standing under water with more soap in hand. 

The shower has surprisingly good pressure, especially when Myra turns and the water hits squarely between her shoulder blades, forcing a moan from her throat which immediately startles her. _Disconnect from the situation, disconnect…!_ If this isn’t a temporary thing, this impossible situation she’s stuck in, Myra will force Tozier to give her his card details so she can pay for a physiotherapist. She had visited one for a while who had worked wonders for her then-broken leg; she had insisted Eddie visit him whenever he suffered pain in his right arm, as he sometimes did in the colder weather. 

Rather than focus on missing Eddie, Myra focuses on washing out Tozier’s stringy hair. 

The shower helps. Less itchy and fully in control of her temporary ( _it will be, Myra wills it to be so and so it must be_ ) body, she ties the towel around her chest and only tuts as it doesn’t stay up, tying it around her hips instead. This time it stays. 

Tozier’s wardrobe doesn’t offer much in the way of outfits - neither do the clothes in his open but unpacked suitcase, nor the ones covering the foot of his bed - but Myra settles on what’s simple and, more importantly, clean: boxers, pants, shirt. Task complete, she strips his bed and heads back to the laundry, determined not to sleep in his sheets again without knowing where they’ve been. She’s seen enough of Tozier’s routines to not trust him in that respect. She has never been a fan, and neither has Eddie, but Eddie had delighted in tearing him apart, and if it made Eddie feel better then Myra was willing to put up with the often terribly crass jokes. 

And yet.

And yet Myra has recently discovered that her Eddie has been a close friend of Richie Tozier’s all along, and also of Bill Denbrough’s, and he had never thought to mention it to her. Not even once.

But this was far from the time to worry about her husband and the secrets she knew he was hiding from her. Myra Kaspbrask was a practical woman. She was moulding the body to her liking, and now she would mould the house. And then, maybe, she would stop and allow herself to think about the predicament she was in. 

She’s nearly finished the kitchen when Bill pads out of his bedroom, stopping when he catches sight of her. 

“Good morning,” Myra says as pleasantly as she can, but her voice still feels like it’s catching in her throat like barbs. “I know I said it already, but I’m sorry for how I acted earlier.” 

Bill blinks blearily behind his own glasses. “Is t-th… is that s-still you, Myra?”

“Unfortunately so.” She finishes wiping down the sink, dropping the wad of used kitchen towel into the bin. “I’ve been waiting for you to wake, because I didn’t think to memorise the passcode to Tozier’s phone.” Not that she had actually seen it; Bill had jabbed it in for her before while she was freaking out. “Do you have any recommendations for a nearby hairdresser?” 

“A… hairdresser?” 

“Yes.” Tozier’s hair is mostly dry now and although it looks a great deal fresher, Myra has decided she hates it. And since she’s in control of this situation and in control of this body...

“I d-don’t know if R-rich will be okay w-with that.” Bill slips his glasses off and tucks them into the neck of his shirt, rubbing a hand over his face and mussing his curls. Myra wishes she had the luxury of doing that with Tozier’s glasses and still being able to see clearly. Maybe she’ll have to drop into an optometrist, try out some contacts. 

“I don’t care what Tozier currently wants,” Myra says curtly. There’s a hot flush which comes with that admission which almost surprises her. “I’m stuck in this body for now. I plan to treat it with a care he’s clearly been lacking.”

When they switch back - and that’s a hard _when_ , not an _if_ \- Myra is sure Tozier will thank her personally for his hassle-free makeover.


	7. Eddie

“I did a bit of googling,” Eddie says once they’re settled into a booth. They both have their menus propped up in front of them; Richie studying his, Eddie pretending to. He’s spent enough time at Georgie’s to memorise what’s on offer. Eddie had - of course - been initially drawn here by the name, but it had also offered an alternative to going home and spending time with Myra these last three months. Myra, to his knowledge, had never been here: she had seen a rat scurry across the floor of a diner as a young girl and refused to step foot in any diner since. 

So really, it was the ideal location to visit after Richie had leaned across the kitchen table and pleaded “let’s go out, Eds, take me somewhere, anywhere you like, somewhere you never take her so you can call me by my name in public”. Yet Eddie still feels a little on edge, every time his eyes wander from the menu he’s not reading to see Richie, looking like Myra as he does in a shirt Eddie regretted buying the moment he’d left the store. Eddie’s still working through understanding all the little weird habits he has which can now be explained away thanks to his refound memories of Derry. Eddie’s occasional purchase of brightly patterned button-ups that he never wore? Blame it on his unremembered nostalgia for Richie’s teenage wardrobe. 

Why Eddie had that nostalgia is beyond him, especially when he’s never gravitated towards buying several-sizes-too-large sweaters like Ben or flannels like Bill. 

“We’ve got Mikey on the case, Eds,” Richie says absently, still staring at the menu. Eddie has never realised how small the booths at Georgie’s actually are; they’re not touching but he can feel the vibrations from all the bouncing Richie’s leg is doing. 

“Yeah, but it feels wrong not doing some research of our own,” Eddie counters. “So I googled _Freaky Friday_ first, since that was as good a place as any to start-”

“LiLo’s finest acting role to date,” Richie chimes in with a grin betraying the solemn tone of his voice. Good to know he’s taking this seriously. 

“- I never saw it so I can’t say,” Eddie continues briskly with a roll of his eyes, “but apparently fortune cookies cause them to swap in that, and I mean - we’ve run into fortune cookies before.”

“Yeah, fucking _un_ -fortune cookies.” Richie drops his voice for the swear in a mock stage-whisper. “We can count those out; I haven’t touched Chinese food since that night at the Jade, and I’m willing to bet you haven’t either. Am I wrong?”

Richie is entirely correct, but Eddie’s not going to dignify him with that answer. “Right, so looking up one bodyswap movie led to me finding a few others so I guess we should - uh - go down the list.” He fishes the paper he had jotted ideas down on from the pocket of his hoodie - it was weird wearing it out of the house without his running clothes underneath, but Richie had been determined to get going and Eddie had automatically grabbed it on the way out. He felt the same way wearing it now as he had in Derry, like a little kid again. Trying to solve the unexplainable. At least his life wasn’t on the line this time. 

“Cool cool cool, hit me.” Richie puts his menu down and leans forward, elbows on the table and chin resting on his hands. He’s not wearing any of Myra’s usual makeup and his eyes are still a little blotchy but he’s smiling and it makes Myra look almost pretty. Eddie’s not sure the last time he saw Myra smile, but he knows she never smiled the way Richie does. “Can’t wait to deny pissing in a public fountain.” 

“God, Rich,” Eddie groans. A moment later he retrieves his pen from the same pocket and crosses it off the list, which sets Richie off into a burst of laughter. 

They work their way down the frankly ridiculous list - no, Richie hasn’t come across any foreign ornaments made from human skulls recently; no, he hasn’t been struck by lightning; no, he hasn’t taken part in an unorthodox science experiment for easy money. 

“I’m a comedian who was able to afford a house in California, why the hell would I risk getting mutated by a mad scientist for a few grand?”

“Rich.”

“...okay, so I would totally consider it if a mad scientist asked me. Wolverine’s cool, man, what can I say?” 

The list is quickly abandoned in favour of discussing the pros and cons of Wolverine’s mutation. Eddie barely notices that Richie’s leg has stopped bouncing under the table until the waitress approaches their booth and it starts up again.

“Nice to see you here with a friend for once, Eddie,” she says with a warm smile, tapping her pen against her notepad. 

Richie raises his eyebrows, mouthing “Eddie?” across the table. Eddie grins sheepishly at him - so he’s visited Georgie’s enough times in the last three months to be on first-name terms with the staff. What about it? 

“Hey, Mel,” Eddie says as casually as he can manage, frantically trying to recall if he had mentioned his marital issues to anyone here. “Yeah, this is my... uh, this is...” 

“I’m Richie!” Richie pipes up with a hard nudge of his leg to Eddie’s under the table. It jolts him out of his awkward stammering. 

“Yeah, Mel, this is my wife, Richie,” he says firmly, and pointedly ignores the way Richie stares at him. “Thought I’d bring her along for once, since she finally has the day off. It’s hard work trying to start up a comedy career around here.”

“Uh,” Richie says. 

Mel looks from Eddie to Richie and back with unfiltered curiosity, but thankfully she sticks to the small talk while taking their order. 

Richie watches her leave as if waiting for her to get out of earshot, a theory confirmed after Richie turns to look at Eddie so abruptly Eddie’s surprised he doesn’t hear Myra’s neck crack. 

“This is a date.” 

“What?!” Eddie’s voice cracks unexpectedly.

“You heard me.” Richie’s leg is bouncing again. His gaze darts between Eddie and the window and the table and back to Eddie again for the start of round two. “She thinks this is a date.”

The word “date” doesn’t compute while Eddie’s sitting here in a diner booth with Richie Tozier, no matter how Richie looks right now. He tries to jam it into his brain but his brain whirs brokenly and refuses to recognise and/or accept the card. 

‘We’re married,” he settles for instead, because he doesn’t know what else to say. “Married couples don’t date.” 

“What, you’ve never been on a date with your wife?” Richie leans back, tugging a napkin free from the dispenser and pretending to fan himself as he puts on the accent of a Southern Belle. It’s a Voice Richie used to do often as a kid but Myra’s vocal chords aren’t doing him any favours. “Mah dear Edward, I do declare! Am I truly to be your first?” 

“Fuck you,” Eddie says shortly. He doesn’t bother dropping his voice for the kids a few booths over. “How many times do I need to tell you my marriage was a sham before you get it into that thick skull of yours?” 

It’s not what he plans to say but it’s out of his mouth before he can stop it. 

Richie drops the Southern Belle act. “Maybe I’d believe you more if you didn’t keep looking at me like-” He stops talking abruptly. The tight line of his mouth is an expression Eddie knows only too well from Myra. “Forget it.” 

If it was Myra, Eddie wouldn’t say anything. He would drop it and they would move on to a lighter topic, like an article Myra had seen online about Jennifer Aniston’s latest relationship issues, and how was it possible she hadn’t given up her career for the far more rewarding goal of motherhood yet, how selfish of her, and Eddie would just nod along. 

But it’s not Myra, it’s Richie. Eddie has never not pushed Richie further. 

“Like what?” Eddie parrots back at him. “How am I looking at you?”

“Eds, I said _forget_ it.”

“You don’t get permission to call me Eds again until I let you, and I won’t let you until you explain.” 

“Is that a threat?” Richie says mockingly, before adding the inevitable: “Eds.”

Eddie reaches under the table and grabs Richie’s knee, squeezing tight enough to make Richie squeak. It might not work on Richie normally but Eddie’s not above taking full advantage of the sensitive areas of Myra’s body. “Fucking _yes_ it’s a threat. If you don’t tell me what’s wrong, then what the fuck are we even doing here?” 

Richie’s hand grabs at Eddie’s under the table, hot and heavy. “Dude, not fair!” 

“ _Richie_ ,” Eddie growls and, despite Richie’s fingers trying to grab at his palm, squeezes again. This time Richie yelps.

“Fine! Fine.” Richie’s hand is still covering Eddie’s but the fight has gone out of him. With his other hand he tucks Myra’s hair behind his ears, fully exposing how pink his cheeks have coloured. Eddie, weirdly enough, is reminded of how Ben looks at Beverly, except this is directed towards him and Ben’s eyes are usually soft instead of harsh. “I’ll believe you’re leaving Myra when you stop looking at her like you’re in love with her, how about that? Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“Is there a problem?” Mel’s back at the table with a frown, Eddie’s salad in hand and showing no sign of placing it down. 

Under the table, Richie pulls his hand away. 

“Just a bit of banter between loved ones!” he chirps, all smiles now. “Say, is that for Eds? I keep telling him to just eat some fries already but I think he was a rabbit in a past life.”

“I don’t love her,” Eddie says abruptly.

Both Richie and Mel stare at him. 

“....riiight,” Mel draws out, clearly unnerved by - whatever she thinks this is. “I’ll leave this here, then.” She places the salad down and backs away. Eddie lets her without saying thanks. Some small still-working gear in his brain knows he’ll think about and regret that later.

“You okay there, Eddie?” Richie says, and after what just passed between them it’s bizarre to hear Richie sound so uncertain. 

Eddie’s hand is still on Richie’s knee. 

“I - I don’t love her,” he says again. This isn’t news to Eddie; he came to this realisation in Derry. “I’ve told you that.”

Richie says, so quietly Eddie nearly misses it: “then why haven’t you left yet?”

Eddie could go on about the difficulties of drawing up divorce papers, about organising copies of every important paper he owns from their life together, about how it’s so much easier to let Myra think she’s calling the shots rather than confront her and be drawn into something so much messier than it needs to be. About how Richie, single and unmarried at forty, couldn’t possibly understand the effort that needs to go into leaving someone who’s been entirely tied to your life for over a decade. About how Bill had left Audra and moved in with Richie before Eddie was able to tell Myra and Richie doesn’t need two divorcees moping around his home, so Eddie was having to draw up a Plan B for what he would do after he finally told Myra it was over. 

“It’s complicated,” Eddie says instead, staring down at his salad so he won't meet Richie's eyes, and finally moves his hand away from Richie’s knee. "Let's keep going with the list. Drink any magic potions lately?"


	8. Richie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three days before Christmas and the internet modem unexpectedly decides to give up on me. This chapter: sponsored by mobile data hotspotting!

No, Richie hasn’t consumed any magic potions recently. No, he hasn’t wished on any shooting stars. 

“We’ve been over that one already,” Richie grumbles through a mouthful of vegan burger. He had tried to order the house burger before Eddie swooped in with a concerned look and a pointed _Richie, dear, remember your lactose intolerance? And your tomato allergy? And…?_ Really, it was super shitty of Eds to not let him know about that earlier, especially when he’d already ingested a mouthful of milky coffee (although knowing what he knows now, it was probably soy or something). “No wishes were wished in the making of my bodyswap film, unless Myra had a thing for wanting to get in my pants.” God, Richie hopes she hadn’t. 

“Beep fucking beep, Rich.” Eddie scratches at his list with his pen. He hasn’t looked up since “it’s complicated”, which - what the fuck does that mean? How the fuck is Richie meant to interpret _that_? 

By getting out of the house, tainted as it was with Myra’s presence, Richie had really thought he would be able to escape being constantly reminded of her and their marriage. Really thought he might get a chance to make the best of a bad situation by just chilling with Eddie, the way they might have done if Richie had been here in body as well as spirit.

It might have worked too if Richie didn’t have stupid feelings that Eddie didn’t know about. 

And also like… was unable to escape Myra's presence considering he literally embodied Myra's presence. 

_Stupid_ , Richie concludes, and stubbornly tries to change the subject in his own mind. What even goes _in_ to vegan meat? 

"Any, uh-" Eddie's pen hovers over the next theory. Eddie's holding his fork loosely in his other hand, a piece of lettuce hanging off it. He's been holding it like that for the last five minutes or so. He looks as uneasy as Richie feels, brow furrowed and a slight frown which minutely changes the way the light catches the scar on his cheek. It healed surprisingly neatly considering everything they went through. Richie wants to touch it, see if he can feel the rise of it under his thumb. "Anyone hypnotise you lately?"

 _Stupid sexy Eddie with his stupid sexy organised list… vegan meat probably involves plants, probably something green?_

"Oh, well, now you mention it!” Richie says cheerfully. “There was this one guy who showed up to my door trying to sell me Scientology-" He quits the act as quickly as he'd started it up, shrugging. "I've got nothing. Anything actually useful on that list of yours?" 

Eddie taps his pen against the table a couple of times, then finally raises his fork and chows down his little lettuce slice. “Yeah, I doubt it.” He swallows. Richie watches the long line of his throat and pretends he doesn’t. “Let’s just get it over and done with: you done anything weird or out of the ordinary at all lately?”

Richie thinks about his talk with Bill the night before. “Nope. You?”

Eddie pauses, halfway through spearing another unlucky lettuce sprig. Finally he’s looked up. “Me?” 

“See anyone else here involved in this mess?” Richie prods the burger, then picks up a fry instead. The Trashmouth has already made things awkward between them, may as well let it keep rolling and run itself out. In for a penny, in for a pound, and all that crap. “Look, I’m the main link here, right? I’m the one who ended up all swippity-swapped but like. Maybe you had something to do with it.” He pops the fry into his mouth. “Get up to any ritualistic chanting lately?”

“Gross,” Eddie says with a grimace. “Chew with your mouth closed.”

“You’re not answering my question, Eds,” Richie sing-songs, waving another fry like a tiny conductor’s baton. “You don’t love your wife so you wanna swap her for someone else, that it?” 

“Fuck you,” Eddie says, but it doesn’t have the heat from before as he reaches across the table, aiming for Richie’s plate. Richie swats away his hand easily. 

“Uh-uh! No fries until you answer.” 

Eddie scowls at him, but it’s familiar. This is familiar. Even though his current heart doesn’t belong to him, Richie can feel it beat a little faster, pump a little more sweat into his palms, press thudding against the base of his throat. He’d rather have this a thousand times over than Eddie referring to him as “my wife”, rather than catch Eddie looking at him (at _Myra_ ) all soft in a way that isn’t real, that can never be real. “You want me to answer if I’ve wished for my wife to be someone else?” 

“If you don’t love her, haven’t you?” Richie shoots back, and he doesn’t allow himself to hope. Not for a moment. 

Eddie opens his mouth (no hope to be found here), closes it (no hope at all, no sirree!), and then darts his hand towards Richie’s plate again. By the time Richie reacts, Eddie’s bitten the fry in half defiantly and makes a show of swallowing before he speaks (and this time, Richie doesn’t even pretend not to watch his throat as he gulps). 

“Marrying Myra was a mistake, but it’s my mistake to undo.” Eddie finishes off the fry and grabs for another; Richie makes no move to stop him. “I’m not planning to be married again anytime soon. Maybe not ever. Not until I figure out what the hell the next stage of my life is.”

 _Me,_ Richie wants to say, so fiercely he has to bite his tongue to avoid it spilling from his mouth and ruining everything. _The next stage was meant to be with me_.

“I wouldn’t wish for her to be someone else, cause I don’t _want_ anyone else. I want to get to know the… look, this sounds stupid, but I want to get to know the real Eddie. The one who isn’t reliant on his mom, or his wife, or his doctor, or any other fucking person out there.” The fry hangs loose between Eddie’s fingers, like the lettuce from the fork before, except it’s shaking. “I don’t - I don’t know who that Eddie is, Rich.”

Richie shouldn’t do this. He shouldn’t do this when he’s in his own body, and he especially shouldn’t do it in Myra’s body, where he runs the risk of aching every time Eddie looks at him like they’ve been married ten years. 

Richie reaches across the table and curls his hand around Eddie’s. The fry mushes under his palm along where the scar which joined them to the Losers used to run. 

He’s really doing this. He’s holding Eddie’s hand and he’s holding it in full view in public and he kind of wants to tear it away and run to the nearest bathroom and wait for his stomach to heave as it no doubt will eventually. 

But he’s not going to, because Eddie moves his own hand under Richie’s and entwines their fingers and the mushed fry between their hands is kind of gross but it’s also kind of a glue holding them together and the heat of Eddie’s hand flows down Richie’s wrist and up his arm and floods his entire body until he’s overflowing with it and for the the first time in a long time Richie feels… okay. Like himself again. 

Eddie is looking at him, and he’s looking at him all wide-eyed and soft, and it’s okay even if it’s meant for Myra.

“Got great news for you!” Richie says brightly, because Richie can’t allow them to have a quiet moment even if it’s good, good, _good_. “I know exactly who that Eddie is, cause he never left.” 

Eddie squeezes his hand. Richie thought he was close to overflowing but now he realises he was nowhere near close.

“That’s awful nice of you to say, Rich, but-”

“I’m not finished! First, what we gotta do is order a plate of spaghetti, my dear Eds, and then-” 

“Oh my _god_ ,” Eddie says and despite the corners of his mouth twitching, that all-too-familiar scowl is back . 

“-we gotta decorate you up nice and pretty, strands around your ears and a few good Italian meatballs for the buttons-” 

“Oh my god, Richie!” Eddie says again, beginning to wheeze as laughter wins over. He tugs his hand away to cover his mouth, and Richie lets him go without a fight because the sight of Eddie laughing at his incredibly stupid joke more than makes up for it. “And you make _money_ for doing this, how the _fuck_ did you ever make it big time-”

“What can I say, I’m a natural!” Richie gives an exaggerated shrug and, in full performance mode, raises his palm to his mouth and licks the crushed potato off. 

“You’re so gross, oh my god!” Eddie exclaims, but he’s still laughing into his hand, shoulders shaking as he fails to contain it, and Richie is…

Richie’s in love. He’s so in love it makes his head spin and he wants his own body back so he can make Eddie laugh like that all the time, twenty-four seven, without having to second-guess every reaction Eddie makes towards him. He wants to hold Eddie’s hand in public and look down at his own fingers entwining with Eddie’s and he wants it to be his own knee touching against Eddie’s under the table. Wants his own heart beating quick and fast in his own chest because Eddie Kaspbrak is laughing at a stupid joke Richie has made hundreds of times over already.

Richie can’t tell Eddie any of this. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Definitely not while he’s Myra. 

But for the first time Richie lets himself want to. He allows himself to want to with everything that he’s got, and the wanting is almost enough.


	9. Bill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rewatched Chapter Two today in the hope of gaining inspiration for writing Bill, and, well... picked up a few other little ideas on the way to pepper into this fanfic. Also we're nearly at 100 subscribers which is! Absolutely insane to me (I've been on this site for seven years and this is far and away my most popular fic, who would've guessed?)

When Bill and Audra arrived at their mutual decision to call it quits, Bill had originally planned to... well, he hadn’t actually had a plan. He had never understood forming a personal attachment to buildings - give him a roof, a desk, and a laptop, and he was fine - so he was happy to let Audra take the house. There had been vague musings on renting out a nearby hotel room, or perhaps taking on a more permanent residence in an apartment, but before Bill had sat down to seriously consider his options he had turned to the Losers’ group chat to let them know of his new bachelor status. 

Richie, to Bill’s surprise, had immediately offered the spare room of his house. Temporarily. Just until Bill and Audra’s affairs were entirely sorted and Bill could figure out the next step. 

“Had it cleaned recently anyway, someone may as well get to use it,” Richie said down the phone. “C’mon, it’ll be fun! Just like when we had sleepovers as kids, but like, we’re whining about how much our backs hurt and watching infomercials instead of your dad’s secret porn stash.”

Bill had moved in that same afternoon. 

So Bill is incredibly grateful to Richie. Really, he is. 

He’s feeling less grateful today. 

“Oh, that’s definitely looking better,” Myra says brightly beside him as she examines Richie’s newly-scrubbed nails. “Wouldn’t you agree, Bill?” 

“Looking good,” Bill promptly says, because he’s learned that it’s far easier if he goes along with Myra. Agreeing over the little things makes it easier to argue the bigger things. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen R-Rich… seen those hands so clean.” 

Bill had managed to steer Myra away from her initial plans for haircuts and waxing to a simple manicure. There was a place Bill visited - at Audra’s insistence - whenever he was required to accompany her for a red carpet event. Myra, thankfully, had become enamoured with the idea and insisted Bill join her, despite Bill protesting his own nails weren’t _too_ bad at the moment, really, it’s fine… 

He ended up booking both of them in. 

“It wouldn’t surprise me.” Myra sticks her hands back out and the beautician tasked with taming the Tozier nails continues his work. “Really, Bill, if you’re going to live with this… specimen, the least you can do is ensure he takes up a good grooming routine! I was lucky with Eddie - would you believe, he was able to teach _me_ about certain nighttime skincare routines! Taught down to him by his mother, of course, but Eddie put them into practice himself at an early age and never looked back. Such a caring woman, Eddie’s mom was.” 

Bill had seen first-hand Eddie’s mom putting her care into practice. He remembers Eddie’s token in Derry, and he remembers young chubby-cheeked Eddie nearly dying of panic in the Barrens because his useless placebo inhaler was empty, and he remembers how he had ridden _Silver_ like a madman to get a replacement in time.

“Of course, you would have met Sonia, if you and Eddie and… Tozier were childhood friends like you say,” Myra continues airily. “She had a tough heart, but it was a heart nonetheless - she could be quite strict with Eddie at times, poor thing, but Eddie’s heart is quite delicate by comparison. He couldn’t stand to see her upset; he was delighted when she gave her approval to our marriage.”

Bill hasn’t had a chance to talk to Eddie about the state of his marriage to Myra. Most of what he knows is filtered through Richie’s tipsy rants and Bev’s concerns on the rare occasions Bill speaks one-to-one with her. From those, and from what Bill knows of Eddie and Sonia Kaspbrak himself, Bill highly suspects Myra’s account might be the other way around.

“How did you and Eddie meet?” Bill asks to change the subject from Sonia Kaspbrak’s parenting skills. Myra immediately launches into a detailed account: how they met through their mothers, how Eddie had been the perfect gentleman on their first date… 

Bill takes advantage of the situation to check his phone, grateful he had insisted on having his nails taken care of one hand at a time. 

There’s a text from Audra reminding him of their meeting later in the week - he texts her an agreement, hoping whatever this is with Richie and Myra gets fixed quick so he won’t have to cancel -, a picture Ben’s sent to the groupchat of their dog - Bill replies with a heart -, but nothing else. 

Bill really hoped Richie and Eddie might have figured something out by now. 

He texts Eddie - _any update?_ \- and then scrolls through his contacts to find Mike’s name and sends him _did richie and/or eddie get in contact with you?_

Bill doesn’t realise Myra has stopped her chattering until he looks up from his phone to find her staring at him with narrowed eyes. 

“Who are you talking to? Eddie?” 

Myra is annoyed she hasn’t been able to speak to Eddie today. Bill knows because Myra’s mentioned it several times already. 

“Just checking if there’s any update on this whole thuh-thing,” he says truthfully. 

Myra gives a little huff which indicates she doesn’t believe him. It’s a hell of a weird thing, watching good old Trashmouth act so prim and proper even if she does give him a run for his money in the rapid talking awards. “Well? Is there?” 

Bill checks his phone again. Nothing yet. 

“Nothing.” 

Myra moves the hand not currently being held by the beautician to her face. It stills at her temple, fingertips brushing the frames of her glasses. For a moment she looks like she had this morning while she was in the initial freak-out stage: startled and lost. The expression smooths over in the blink of an eye. “Plenty of time to clean up this body into something respectable. Do you have a current photo of Eddie? I was thinking a haircut in a similar style to his, once we’ve cleared away all the untidy ends.” 

Bill’s imagination is capable of great things - he’s received critical acclaim for his writing, even if it does fall flat at the endings - but when he tries to imagine Richie with trim hair, he fails miserably. Richie wouldn’t be Richie if his hair wasn’t on the side of untamable.

Thankfully, his phone chooses now to vibrate with a call from Mike.

“Sorry, I’m gonna t-take this,” he says, both for the benefit of Myra and the beautician working on his own nails as he pulls his hand away - they were nearly done, anyway - and stands up, nearly stumbling over his own feet in his enthusiasm to talk to someone other than Myra. 

“Is it Eddie?” Myra asks, and Bill can’t help but feel his heart tug at how eager she sounds - (how eager Richie sounds) and how her face (Richie’s face) falls when Bill shakes his head and walks away. There’s a lounge in the corner of the room for people waiting on their own appointments, and Bill sinks down into it gratefully. His back hasn’t been the same since the last encounter with Pennywise.

“Hey, Bill,” Mike says, all warm in his ear, and Bill releases a sigh he didn’t realise he was holding and lets himself slump to a more comfortable position. “How are things holding up over in California?” 

“Nice to hear from you too, Mikey,” Bill says with a smile - it feels good to genuinely smile, and to talk to someone he loves in their own rightful body. “You heard the news about Richie?” 

“You mean the new and improved Mrs Kaspbrak?” Mike says teasingly. “Yeah, Rich called me earlier - not exactly news I thought I’d ever hear, but it’s good to be researching again. Feels like I’m doing something useful.” 

“Getting to see as much of the S-states as you can is useful,” Bill counters. Since the last meeting of the Losers Club, Bill and Mike have spoken over the phone at least once a week and each and every time Bill is so incredibly grateful that Mike finally escaped Derry with the rest of them. It loosens his own guilt, sure, but more importantly he’s just delighted Mike is getting to experience life outside of small-town Maine. 

“Say that again when my savings run out,” Mike says, as if he doesn’t know any of the Losers would immediately split their own savings with him to ensure he goes on seeing the world. “How has, uh, Myra been going?” 

Bill looks over. Myra’s talking to the beautician now as he painstakingly paints her nails; Bill catches snatches of conversation and concludes they’re discussing netflix shows. “She’s on a one-woman mission to give R-Richie a m-makeover or die trying.” 

“Bill, what I am about to say is extremely important. Please send photos if she succeeds.”

Bill chuckles despite himself. “You g-got it, Mikey.”

“Also, uh…” Mike trails off. There’s a low chattering in the background of wherever Mike currently is; Bill closes his eyes and pictures him in a coffee shop somewhere. Maybe one of those combination coffee shops and bookstores. Books piled in front of him next to a laptop, coffee on the side. “I’ve been doing some thinking about this. I told Rich and Eddie it sounded like wish magic - you know, when you make an absent wish and something magically grants it, sometimes with a side of trickery?”

“Like a genie?” 

“Like a genie,” Mike repeats back to him in confirmation. “They both said they haven’t made any wishes recently - not sure I believe them or not-”

Bill thinks of Richie calling him earlier, all hurried and asking if he’d wished to be Myra at any point last night, and that clicks neatly into place. 

“- but I thought it might be worth asking Myra the same thing. It could be she’s come across a stray magic artifact, or perhaps Eddie’s presence has affected her in some way?”

“Hold on,” Bill blurts out, before Mike can continue. “You think Eddie’s magic?” 

“I think we might all be,” Mike replies, which is not the answer Bill was expecting. “It’s possible something stuck with us after our experience - I haven’t had a chance to research it properly. I assumed any magic clinging to us would fade away like the scars on our hands did.”

Bill glances down at his unscarred palm through instinct. He doesn’t _feel_ particularly magical. Then again, one of his best friends is currently in another one of Bill’s best friend’s wife’s body, and isn’t _that_ a doozy of a sentence to consider.

Maybe Richie had said something last night. Bill hadn’t been too surprised by the prospect that Richie liked Eddie in a way that was more romantic than platonic. There had been that moment in the cavern, where Eddie was nearly shanked before Richie rolled them both out of the way and then refused to let go of Eddie’s wrist until Pennywise’s heart was crushed between them. There had been the nights on Richie's couch where they knocked back beer and/or bourbon and talked about their reclaimed memories, and Richie had a proportionately large amount of anecdotes about Eddie in particular that Bill either didn't remember or hadn't been there for. But Bill had been surprised to learn Richie was holding onto those feelings with such ferocity that he cried against Bill’s thigh after voicing them - Bill had thought, if anything, it might be an unrealised crush. Bill had tried combing his own teenage memories for any additional information, but as much as he tried, he could only remember Richie and Eddie being, well... Richie and Eddie. Constantly bickering about anything and nothing but immediately ready to defend the other if anyone else joined in. 

Maybe Bill is a bad friend. Maybe he should have stayed on the couch with Richie, rather than leave him there alone. Maybe Richie had mumbled something and Bill wouldn’t know because he hadn’t been there to catch it. 

‘Check with Myra first,” Mike is saying. “I don’t know how much Eddie or you have told her, but it’ll be hard for her to not believe in magic if she’s stuck with Richie’s prescription.” 

“Got it,” Bill says, and nods even though Mike won’t see it. “Anything else?”

Mike hesitates. “I’ve… been doing some thinking. About what I know about shapechanging from my research into It.”

“And?” Bill prompts, but already he’s got an uneasy feeling about whatever it is Mike’s been thinking. 

The uneasy feeling is proved correct when Mike quips: “All living things must abide by the shape they inhabit.” 

“...Rich and Myra are both human,” Bill points out after he’s absorbed and immediately rejected what that idea could possibly mean. “They haven’t - they haven’t shifted shape, they’re just… displaced spirits, but in normal physical bodies.” It doesn't feel right describing Richie or Myra in those terms. 

“Yeah.” Mike exhales, and during that exhale worry gnaws at Bill. “Yeah. I hope you’re right. I’ll keep looking.” 

“Thanks, Mikey,” Bill says with feeling, glancing over towards Myra again. She’s standing up from the table - her manicure must be over - and her posture is straight-backed, hands tight at her sides as opposed to being slumped with hands shoved deep into pockets. If Bill didn’t know, he might not have recognised Richie Tozier. “I’ll talk to Myra. Keep me in the luh-loop, okay?” 

“Yeah, okay,” Mike says, and Bill misses him already even though he hasn’t hung up. “Love you, Bill.”

“Love you too,” Bill echoes before reluctantly ending the call, just as Myra walks over. 

“The nails were a good idea,” Myra announces, holding up her hands with fingers outstretched for him to inspect. “Now, if that call wasn’t anything to do with my current situation, shall we decide on our next stop? If this is to be a single day occurrence, we have a long list to get through.”


	10. Eddie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently I felt like writing today! (every bodyswap film needs a shopping montage that's just an unbroken rule)

Richie insists on going shopping after they’ve finished at Georgie’s. 

“Like, book shopping?” 

“Like, if I’m stuck in this body I want to wear some decent clothes shopping,” Richie retorts, tugging on the sleeve of the shirt he’s wearing. “We can get some stuff for you too, Spaghetti! Something actually cool.” 

Eddie would have told Richie off for the nickname at any point before the last fifteen minutes. Instead, he snorts and tries not to start laughing again; god forbid Richie actually start thinking he’s a comic genius. “What, the polos not doing it for you?”

“Hmm…” Richie props an elbow on the table, tapping away with a beige fingernail against his chin. His eyes rove Eddie up and down and Eddie waits for the tell-tale shiver down his spine whenever Myra judges his appearance. It doesn’t come. “Not unless we go tie-dye.”

“In your dreams, Rich.” 

Richie grins like a cheshire cat. “Maybe so, Eddie... Vermicelli.” 

“No!” Eddie stands up so quickly it’s a wonder he doesn’t flip the table (bolted to the ground) over. “No, that’s _it_ , I’m revoking your nickname privileges again and this time it’s forever.” 

“But Edssss…”

“Nope!” 

Richie, of course, ends up trying out at least a dozen different nicknames before they hit the first store, all of which Eddie immediately vetoes. Some are ones which jolt his memory back to Derry; others Eddie’s willing to swear he’s never heard before. The one thing they have in common is that they’re all terrible, and another is that Eddie feels lighter and warmer inside at each one. 

Sonia and Myra really messed Eddie up if Richie’s nicknames are what spark joy in him.

“Revolutionary Eddie flat-out does not rhyme,” he argues as Richie holds up a plain black shirt against his own chest, tucking the coathanger under his chin to keep it in place rather than holding it with his hands like a normal person. 

“Sure it does!” Richie tucks the edges of the shirt around his waist. Eddie should - he _should_ probably say something to protect his wife’s honour. 

But then again, they’ve already had that conversation. Eddie remembers Myra’s bared back - Richie’s bared back…? His head spins, so he stops trying to sort them and instead lets his fingertips itch at the memory of touching bare skin. 

He’s just touch deprived. He had googled that too, while Richie was upstairs putting on clothes.The Losers weren’t exactly shy on touching each other and the shared sleepover in Bev’s room after defeating It had left Eddie squished between Richie on one side and Ben on the other, Bev’s hand draped over Ben’s side and brushing against Eddie’s own, Stan’s hand likewise over Richie’s. That single night Eddie had experienced more touch than he had in like… twenty years. It was only natural that going from that to a single physically distant person would result in Eddie’s body physically craving intimacy, however small. 

“Oh!” The shirt clatters to the floor as it slips out from Richie’s chin. “I’ve got it, Eds! Revolutionary Eddie getting ready with his machete!” 

“I want Myra back,” Eddie deadpanes as straight-faced as he can, and lasts all of two seconds before he chokes on his own laughter.

“Nah, she can’t-” Richie, picking up the shirt, hesitates as if he’s debating whether or not to say something, which would be a first for him. Eddie can’t see his face from this angle but he’s not trying to; he’s trying to stop wheezing. “She can’t give you good chucks like I can.”

“Who says I want your chucks?” Eddie counters, but it’s pointless considering he’s trying to hide his smile behind his hand. “C’mon, there’s a hideous one over here I reckon you’ll like.” 

It’s a Christmas sweater, despite Christmas being months away yet, emerald green and made from the same material as shag carpet. There’s a puppy and a kitten entwined in fairy lights which light up at the touch of a button, and the legend “Merry Christmas Furever!” underneath. 

“Eds,” Richie says, entirely serious. “This is the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. I must have it.” 

“Say Revolutionary doesn’t rhyme with Eddie and you can have it.”

“Done.” Richie holds out his hand and they shake on it. Eddie feels it in his palm all the way to the store counter.

Considering Richie seems to be aiming for a shopping spree, they don’t actually buy much. There’s the Christmas sweater, of course, and Richie insists on Eddie buying a navy button-up patterned with pineapples so he can “live a little, take that Hawaii vacay”, but otherwise Richie goes for plain mens tees. 

“No button ups for you?” Eddie asks in near-disbelief as Richie - again - picks up a plain shirt in burgundy and holds it against his forearm as if judging the colour. He’s seen Richie’s social media photos and his fashion style as an adult is as predictable as his childhood wardrobe.

Richie groans in response, putting the burgundy shirt down. “Hey, Eds, you wanna see something that really sucks?” He reaches for the nearest rack of button-ups - black with little silver triangles - and grabs one in one hand and Eddie’s hand with his other, leading him to the changing rooms and pulling him into an unoccupied one. Eddie’s hand tingles in Richie’s grasp and he’s extremely aware that it never felt like this to hold Myra’s hand when she was - well - Myra. 

Richie tugs the door closed behind them and it’s just the two of them and not much space for anything else. 

“Discovered this this morning,” Richie says, tugging off the shirts he’s wearing - Eddie’s first, then Myra’s. His elbows keep bumping into Eddie’s torso and Eddie breathes in to make his stomach tight, trying to maximise space in the cramped room. He forgets sometimes that Myra’s tall as well as big; that he sometimes has to tilt his head upwards slightly to look at her when they stand nose-to-nose. 

“Rich, what the fuck are you -”

“Gimme a sec!” Richie undoes the buttons on the button-up he’d grabbed, and Eddie isn’t watching how his chest rises and falls in the bra - oh god, the other people in the store are going to think they’re in here about to get it on - how many other people have gotten it on in this changing room - it’s probably filthy and there’s so little space for Eddie to move without leaning into Richie - but then Eddie notices how Richie has the tip of his tongue caught between his teeth and that’s somehow worth focusing on until all the buttons are undone and Richie slides the shirt on.

“You see the problem?” Richie says, and yeah, Eddie gets it. The shirt is stretched tight across his chest, the spaces between the buttons gaping. “I could try going larger, but like… what’s the point.”

“Tough luck,” Eddie says in an attempt to be sympathetic. 

“Tough luck my ass,” Richie says, a tad bitter. “Being a woman sucks. I don’t know how they do it.” 

Eddie doesn’t know how to answer that so he stays quiet as Richie changes back and tries not to stare too much.

_Dear Agony Aunt,_

_The woman I’m planning on divorcing recently switched bodies with a good friend of mine, and now I’m more attracted to her than I’ve ever been, but only in the ways she resembles my friend (whose spirit is currently housed within her physical form). How do I even begin looking up these symptoms on Web MD? How do I best explain them to a therapist?_

_Sincerely,  
Eds. _

_P.S. I should also mention that my good friend is a-_

“Hey, Eddie? You okay?” 

Eddie had stopped thinking mid-thought, as if a guillotine had come crashing down in his imaginary letter and separated him from - it felt like a revelation. 

He had also stopped walking at the same time, which is why Richie had to backtrack. 

“I’m, uh-” Eddie had been close to something. So _close_. That Richie is a comedian? That Richie is a dumbass? That Richie is someone he’d forgotten for twenty-seven years but felt closer to than nearly anyone else? “I’m fine.” 

“And I’m Pennywise the Dancing Clown!” Richie quips in an impression that’s not exactly It’s Voice, frowning and touching the back of his hand to Eddie’s forehead. “You sure about that?”

“Yeah, I’m-” With Richie’s hand this close to his eyes, Myra’s wedding ring is in the main sight of Eddie’s vision. Eddie been itching to take off the matching ring on his own finger for months. 

Knowing Richie’s wearing it doesn’t make his own itch as much. 

_That my good friend is a-_

Eddie screws his eyes shut and breathes in for eight, out for eight. He senses rather than feels Richie’s breathing match his own, even as Richie takes Eddie’s hands in his loosely. 

The revelation hasn’t hit yet, but Eddie knows something’s there now, and that’s almost scarier than what the revelation itself is. 

He keeps his breathing in an even pattern as he opens his eyes slowly.

“Eds, you okay?” Myra asks - no, _Richie_ asks, all wide-eyed and brimming with anxious energy. “You don’t - don’t need me to go get an inhaler or meds or anything?” 

“No, I’m good,” Eddie says, exhaling, and this time he means it. “Sorry, I just - got caught up in my own mind for a sec there.” 

Richie smacks his shoulder. 

“Ow!” 

“Well, don’t fucking do it again,” Richie says fiercely, as if through his sheer willpower Eddie will be off the panic attacks for life. “Let’s just - let’s just go home.” 

Eddie never liked the way Myra said home but it’s different when Richie says it, even if he's using her voice. 

The revelation hits. 

It’s not the tsunami Eddie expected. 

It’s a drizzle. It’s snowflakes. 

“Yeah,” Eddie says, and he looks down at where Richie’s still holding one of his hands and tries to remember what Richie’s actual hands look like. What they would look like holding Eddie’s hands like this. What the ring finger of his left hand might look like with Myra’s wedding ring encircling it. “Let’s go home.”

_P.S. I should also mention that my good friend is a man._


	11. Richie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're well and truly past 100 subscribers now! Unless I manage to sneak off to a corner somewhere today this will be the last chapter for 2019. Thank you to everyone who's commented (and especially those who've been commenting on multiple chapters as this fic goes on! I will literally do any favour you ask of me) for letting me close out a decade of on/off fic-writing with a bang. Have a happy new year and I'll see you on the other side of 2020!

Richie shoves himself into the Christmas sweater the second he walks into the Kaspbrak household and stands on tiptoe to check it out in the mirror above the fireplace. It’s everything he hoped it’d be.

“Transformation of Myra into crazy cat lady, check!” Richie announces, dropping back onto the balls of his feet and spinning around to face Eddie. “Take a good look cause this is gonna be Myra’s life after you leave. She’s going to buy half a dozen cats and name them all Eddie-my-love.”

“Beep beep, Richie!” Eddie says from the couch with a roll of his eyes. 

“More like, meow meow, Myra!” Richie curls a hand up to his chin and licks the back of it. He regrets it immediately on remembering whose hand it is. 

“Any more of that and I’m throwing a boot at you.” 

“Aw, Eds! You love me too much for that.” Richie throws himself down on the couch beside Eddie. Eddie tenses beside him, and that might have been a surprise except that Eddie’s been a little off since the whole near-panic attack, which is... fine. It’s fine. If Eddie were out of sorts, he himself would be the first loudly complaining about it, so Richie is not going to worry about whatever the fuck it was that Eddie went through. 

Besides, Richie thinks, feeling only the tiniest bit sorry for being selfish as he picks stray threads off his new sweater and drops them onto Eddie’s thigh, he has enough to deal with himself. 

For lack of anything better to do, they watch _Freaky Friday_. The good one, with Lindsay Lohan. 

“Hold me, this is getting scary!” Richie declares as the fortune cookies are offered on screen (and he wishes he was 100% joking but he’s thinking about wriggling eyeballs and whatever the fuck that flying baby-faced maggot was). He twists on the couch, legs flung over the edge as his head falls into Eddie’s lap. Myra’s hair obstructs his vision and Richie hates it for ruining what would otherwise be a lovely memory of looking up at Eddie’s chin as Eddie exclaims: “Ow! Rich!” It was so close to being one of those memories Richie had fantasised about when he’d thought Eddie would be moving in with him after Derry. So close, yet so far.

But then Eddie, rather than shoving him away or simply sitting stiffly as Richie expected, moves his hand to Richie’s face and gently moves Myra’s hair to the side so he can see clearly again. 

“Better?”

“Uh,” Richie says, because it’s not better. Richie doesn’t know how to deal with Eddie treating him like he’s delicate. He’s a deer caught in the headlights of Eddie’s big brown eyes. He’s Lindsay Lohan when she sees Chad Michael-Murray. And he’s lying across Eddie’s thighs, and Eddie’s hand is - Eddie’s stroking his hair. It feels nice. What the fuck. “Uh - yeah. Thanks?”

It’s a fantasy come to life and Richie is an idiot who can’t relax and enjoy it. When they were kids, they would always curl up beside each other while watching television - sometimes with various other Losers, sometimes just the two of them. Sometimes Richie would lie across Eddie, sometimes Eddie would lie across Richie. And every time, once the summer of 1989 came and went, Richie was terribly, horribly aware of how close Eddie was. How much he craved and feared those moments in front of the television when, for once, the two of them could touch each other in silence and Richie would be so aware of where his own body met Eddie’s that it hurt. It had made him feel dirty as a kid and he feels dirty now -

 _Nope_. Richie’s _not_ going to go down that path. He’s going to fucking enjoy this, godammit! He’s going to let Eddie stroke his hair, and he’s going to go on lying on Eddie’s lap, and he’s going to watch the movie and he’s not going to let himself feel any guilt over it whatsoever.

“What the fuck,” Eddie says as Lindsay and Jamie purposefully run into each other on the screen. “Why do they think that would accomplish anything?! People run into each other all the time and you never see them go ‘Oh, sorry, I’ve given you a bruise and it looks like we’ve swapped bodies!’ It’s not - it’s not scientific!”

Eddie really can be an idiot sometimes. Richie loves it. “Hey, Eds, was that method on your bodyswap list? Reckon Myra would absolutely total me if we tried that.”

Eddie thinks it over. Richie can almost see the gears in his brain, hard at work. “You mean you-Myra or Myra-you?” 

“Like, this body Myra.” Richie lifts a hand and waves it up and down himself. His sweater jingles a little with the movement. “Solid as a rock.” 

Eddie scoffs. “Yeah, but your body is solid too, Rich! You’ve got those, like…” 

“Yeah?” Richie prompts eagerly. Call him shallow, but he’s intensely curious about what Eddie thinks about his body. “Rock-hard balls?” 

“Asshole,” Eddie says without any bite. “I meant, like…” He shrugs, and Richie wants to pretend he looks awkward when he concludes, “Really broad shoulders.” 

Interesting. Richie shimmies his current ones against Eddie’s thigh. “Oh, you like my shoulders, huh?” 

“What? No, I don’t, I was just saying-!” 

“Eddie Spaghetti thinks I’m nice and broad!” Richie crows, because if he doesn’t let it out this way he’s going to explode internally (and possibly start blushing depending on Myra’s skin complexion, which would be straight-up embarrassing). “You miss them?”

“I miss all of you right now,” Eddie says bluntly. The hand in Richie’s hair curls, tugging at his scalp a little. “Wouldn’t feel guilty about shoving you to the ground right now if you were yourself.” 

“Finally, something to be thankful about being in someone else’s body!” Richie prods Eddie’s cheek, careful to avoid his scar. “Might just go to sleep here in your lap, Eds.” 

Eddie swats Richie’s hand away, just like old times. “Yeah, well, you’d have to stay there, cause there’s no way I’m carrying you to bed.”

“Sounds like a good time!” Richie teases, trying not to let on just how much of a good time that would be. “Maybe I should tell Mike to give up the search, just move in as Mrs K. Hey, Eds, gimme a kiss!”

Eddie - Eddie hesitates. Eddie hesitates and Richie _loses his fucking mind_ because he’s staring down at Richie like maybe - just maybe - he’s considering it. Eddie’s fingers in Richie’s hair spread so he’s cradling the back of Richie’s head, which is good because Richie’s head is currently spinning. 

But Eddie doesn’t kiss him, because - because that would be _stupid_ , Rich, what were you _thinking, of_ course _he wasn’t going to kiss you_! Instead, Eddie shakes his head and turns his attention back to the film. 

“Sooner we get you back to normal, the better, balls and all.”

“Uh,” Richie manages to get out - _say something else, anything!_. “I gotta go to the bathroom.” 

He somehow manages to stumble upstairs to Myra’s en suite - he’s not confident with the layout of the other bathrooms yet - and splashes water onto his face until Myra’s blonde hair hangs in dark strands across his forehead. 

This is bad. 

This is very bad. 

Richie let himself want Eddie and now he’s imagining Eddie wants him back and he’s only gone and set himself up for a lifetime of disappointment and pain. 

He grips the sink and glares at his reflection as if expecting Myra to speak through it and scold him for his own thoughts. It’d be easier for Richie if she did. 

“Don’t screw this up for us,” he hisses instead, watching the words escape through Myra’s mouth. “We’re just - two bros chilling.” 

It’s not helping. 

“You’re just… two bros chilling?” He tries, attempting to pitch his voice the way he imagines Myra would sound. Bossy. Damning. Surface-level docile undercut with a sharpness. Like the way Sonia spoke to him whenever Richie turned up on her doorstep for Eddie. “Get a grip on yourself, Richard, or he’s going to figure it out and then he won’t want to play with you anymore. And you don’t want that to happen, do you? Don’t want to risk yourself all for a game of-” He opts for Pennywise now, giving voice to the taunt which haunted him for so long, “- Truth or Dare.” 

It works. Richie hates that it works. It’s easier to criticise himself when he’s not himself. He’s been hiding behind Voices all his life but currently he’s able to hide behind a Face, too.

Myra’s reflection looks all blotchy and dishevelled in her ugly sweater, and it’s probably what Richie deserves. He grabs a towel and dabs his face dry, finally locates a hairtie to keep his hair from falling into his eyes - not that he makes a great job of tying it back, he might have to make an apology to any owners of man-buns for that joke in his last comedy set -, and trudges back to Eddie determined to enjoy a good bro chill session and nothing more.

Except Eddie, on catching sight of him, tucks his phone back into his pocket and holds an arm out in an open invitation for Richie to stretch across his lap again. “All good, Rich?” 

Fuck it. 

Richie drops to Eddie’s side and snuggles into him like his life depends on it. 

“Sure am, Spaghetti man! Now hit play, I can’t wait to feel sweet relief that Myra’s not in a band and I don’t have to cover for her on an instrument I’ve never learned.”

“Wow, you mean you don’t play the cello? How is Myra’s orchestra going to win battle of the bands?” Eddie deadpans.

His arm is around Richie’s shoulders, and it’s - it’s too close. Too domestic. 

He can’t ever be satisfied, can he?

“Hang on, got another text,” Eddie says suddenly and pulls out his phone, swiping at the screen. 

Richie is busy planning how to slip to the other side of the couch - maybe prop his feet in Eddie’s lap casually along the way - when Eddie exclaims “Holy _shit_!”

“What?!” Richie sits upright, Eddie’s arm falling away behind him like an afterthought. “Is it Mike? Has he found a solution? Am I gonna get my balls back?”

“It’s Bill,” Eddie says, still staring transfixed at his phone. “He, uh - he says he’s sorry.” 

“Sorry?” Richie echoes, and makes a grab for Eddie’s phone. “About what?!”

As Eddie said, the text says _tell richie I’m sorry_ with an additional sad emoji. What Richie doesn’t understand is why Bill would also send a photo of some random middle-aged guy as if that was explanation enough. What does he have to be sorry for about? 

“You, uh.” Eddie crowds beside him, tapping the photo to enlarge it. “You look good?” 

Richie stares. “Wait, that’s-” 

It’s _him_. 

The random middle-aged guy, that’s Richie. _Actual_ Richie, no thick glasses or stubble to be found, hair snipped neat and combed tidily to the side like Eddie's. He’s wearing a smug smile and - oh god - a _sweater vest_.

A few stray wisps of hair fall into Richie’s eyes. 

“Eddie,” Richie says, as calm and even as possible. “Where do you keep your scissors?”


	12. Eddie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year y'all!

Eddie has been thinking about things. He’s been thinking about a lot of things. Seeing the photo of Richie - Richie’s physical self, all cleaned up and actually presentable for once in his goddamn life - only made the thinking about things worse. 

So in a way, Richie’s question is a welcome distraction. 

“They’re in the kit-” Eddie begins, but just in time his mind sharpens into a single thought, which is this: Richie and scissors are _not_ going to mix well. 

Sure enough, Richie shoves Eddie’s phone back to him and scrambles to his feet. “In the kitchen? In a drawer somewhere?” 

“Yeah,” Eddie says automatically before remembering this is the very outcome he wants to avoid. “Wait - no!” 

“Thanks Eds, you’re a pal!” Richie flashes him a double thumbs-up and it’s Richie trying to get Eddie to help him with Myra’s bra all over again.

And here Eddie was, on the verge of thinking that - 

“No!” Eddie exclaims again, lunging off the couch and grabbing at Richie’s arm as he heads towards the kitchen. He has to use both hands and dig his heels into the rug to bring Richie to a halt. Myra’s always been stronger than she looks, and perhaps Eddie’s only advantage right now is Richie not being aware of that. 

“Eds, leggo of me!” 

“Look, I don’t know what you’re planning, but you can’t-” 

“Can’t what?” Richie challenges, rounding on Eddie. “Can’t pull a Bev and give myself a fashionable pixie cut? Is it against the law to let people cut their own hair now or something?” 

“Maybe if I thought that’s _all_ you were gonna do, I wouldn’t be holding you back!” Eddie shoots back. He has to tilt his head to meet Richie’s glare now, like he had back in the dressing room. “All she did was tidy you up a bit, c’mon-”

“Eds, my face is like-” Richie taps his temple with the hand connected to the arm Eddie’s not holding. “It’s like, eighty percent forehead up there, and it’s only been getting worse. My dad had this like, massive bald patch at fifty, and you might not have noticed, but I’m not too far off that now!”

“You’re not fucking fifty yet, calm down-”

“I’m calm!” Richie insists, sounding anything but. “I’m so, so fucking calm, Eddie, and the first calm thing I wanna do is give Myra bangs but in reverse.” 

Eddie needs to take a moment to absorb what that possibly means. “What the fuck would that even look like?” he exclaims, but the pause was enough for Richie to tear his arm free and dart into the kitchen. Eddie follows in time to see Richie yank open the nearest drawer, the cutlery inside jingling.

The drawer Richie wants is on the other side of the kitchen, underneath the useless house-phone plugged into the end of the counter that his mom insisted they install. 

“You didn’t even look that bad!” Eddie blurts out.

That makes Richie pause, hand on the handle of the drawer beneath. “Eds, she turned me into a discount version of _you_.” 

Eddie didn’t expect that one to sting quite so deeply. Maybe it wouldn’t have, if he hadn’t been busy thinking since his little revelation earlier. 

“And what’s fucking wrong with that?”

Richie doesn’t answer, not opening the drawer.

“What’s wrong with looking like me?” Eddie repeats, in case Richie didn’t get it into his thick skull the first time around. God, he’d been - he’d been so _stupid_ , how could he have _possibly_ even considered - 

“Just - let it fucking go, alright?” Richie yanks the drawer, rummaging through the selection of ladles and salad forks Eddie and Myra had built up over the years. “Myra clearly doesn’t fucking care about it, so what’s stopping me from giving her the same treatment?” 

“Richie motherfucking Tozier!” Before Eddie realises what he’s doing, he’s got two hands full of Richie’s ridiculous sweater, forcing him back against the counter. Richie’s elbow hits the tap and water spurts into the sink, spraying over the both of them. Eddie barely notices. “Just take a second and fucking _chill_ , will you?” 

He’s never pushed Myra around like this. Never even considered it, not even for a second. But it’s not Myra he’s pushing around right now, it’s _Richie_ , and sometimes a good tackle was all it took to shut the Trashmouth up and get him out of his own head. God knows Eddie had done it often enough when he was a head shorter. 

Sure enough, after a few tense moments of glaring him down, Richie goes lax under Eddie’s grasp. 

“Fuck,” Richie mutters, eyes closed as his shoulders slump. “Fuck. Shit. I _hate_ this.”

Eddie lets him get out a few more swears before he cautiously loosens his grip on Richie’s sweater to reach around him and switch the tap off. Richie, thankfully, doesn’t move. 

“It’s gonna be okay, Rich,” Eddie says quietly, and he wishes he could believe what he’s saying. “There are worse things she could’ve done to you, and you damn well know it. Could’ve shaved you bald and saved your genetics the hassle.” 

Richie makes a noise which could be a hiccup or a small exasperated laugh. It’s a start.

“She could’ve gotten you a tattoo,” Eddie plunges on. “Piercings. That kind of shit.” 

“Already got a tattoo,” Richie mutters. He must see the expression on Eddie’s face, because he clarifies: “I was in college, I was stoned outta my mind, it was a dumb idea and this guy dared me-” 

“Where?” Eddie asks. He meant to ask “What of?” but the alternative slipped out of him before he could stop it. 

“Uh, like…” Richie moves his hand from the counter to touch the back of Eddie’s thigh. He lets his fingertips rest there. Eddie can barely feel them through his jeans but the knowing is enough to make the spot burn. “It’s a - you ever see Pokemon?” 

Well, it’s nice to know Richie never fails to surprise Eddie, even after all these years.

“You’re telling me,” Eddie says, not willing to lean into this newfound knowledge, but prepared to let curiosity kill the cat anyway, “that you have a _Pokemon tattoo_?” 

“It was a dare!” Richie protests. “It’s, uh, a Squirtle. In case you’re curious.” 

Eddie doesn’t know what a Squirtle is. He also doesn’t care because he’s currently preoccupied with the flush spreading across Myra’s cheeks and the small dusting of freckles on her jaw she normally hides under make-up (and the thing is… if Eddie lets himself... he can almost pretend it’s stubble).

“Maybe Myra will remove it,” Richie suggests, and swallows. “I - I wouldn’t mind that one so much.”

Eddie hopes she doesn’t. He kind of wants to see it for himself. 

Richie’s fingertips are still touching the back of his own thigh. 

This is ridiculous. This is getting out of hand. Richie’s always been touchy-feely with Eddie and Eddie was always the same back because - well, that’s what Richie and Eddie were like. When Eddie was a kid, he took it for granted that whenever the Losers gathered together he’d eventually end up sprawling across Richie or vice versa, because that’s what they did. It’s no surprise they’ve instinctively picked up where they left off. It’s not like Richie _means_ anything by it. Not like anything’s going to change just because Eddie’s suddenly hyper-aware of Richie’s body against his own, especially when it’s not even Richie’s _actual_ body. If it was - if it was Richie’s stomach under the sweater Eddie’s still loosely holding, if it was his eyes Eddie was looking up at, current kicked-puppy expression on his own face rather than being translated through Myra’s - maybe Eddie would have a solid chance of shifting through things. 

Richie’s certainly right about one thing: Eddie hates this too. 

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Eddie says, because one of them needs to take charge and he doesn’t want to risk Richie making another dive for the scissors. “We’re going to finish watching _Freaky Friday_ , and we’re going to talk to Mike, and we’re going to do a bit more research, and we’re going to go to sleep. And if this - if it’s still you in there tomorrow, we’ll pull out all strings. Get Mike up here so we can talk it over with him properly, get the rest of the Losers involved, maybe catch a flight so you can confront Myra in person. Sound good?”

“Eds!” Richie clasps his hand - the one not hovering over Eddie’s thigh - to his heart. He’s playing it up with a capital D for Drama, so Eddie can rest easy. “How _dare_ you threaten me with giving our good friend Stanley blackmail for years?” 

“I’d be more worried about Bev,” Eddie says drily. “Finally she’ll have someone else to girl talk with.” 

“Oh, great! We can have a slumber party, do our nails, talk about boys...” 

“You say it like you didn’t do that already,” Eddie points out.

It might be Eddie’s imagination but he thinks Richie flinches before he moves his hand away from Eddie’s thigh. “Ha! You got me there, Eds Spagheds!”

Eddie lightly shoves at Richie’s stomach but like, in an affectionate way. “I’m letting most of these slide because you’re going through a rough time, but the second you’re back to your body, it’s Eddie and only Eddie. Got it?”

“Roger that, Eds!” Richie gives him a mock salute. “So, uh, back to snuggling? Or are you just going to keep me here in time out?”

“You promise you’re not going to cut your hair?” Eddie counters. 

Richie shrugs innocently. 

“Richard.” 

“Edward,” Richie returns, then groans. He rubs at his face with both hands, and his left sleeve drips slightly at the elbow from where the water soaked it through. “God, Eddie, I hate that you’re making me do this! Fine. Promise I won’t give this body any permanent makeovers without your permission.” 

Eddie nods. “Good. God knows what you would have managed to do to my body if we’d been the ones swapped.” 

“Oh, easy!” Richie taps his own chin thoughtfully. “Matching tattoo of Squirtle on your thigh so I don’t have to suffer through the rest of my life alone. No, wait, maybe Charmander. Something fiery to liven up your unblemished skin.” 

“Who’s to say my skin’s unblemished?” Eddie says, unable to resist teasing, and this time Richie’s cheeks definitely colour, which is… interesting. Something to tuck away and think about later, along with all the other things Eddie needs to think through, when Richie's back to his own self without Myra's biology interfering. At least Richie's attention has been diverted for now.

“Wait… Eddie, do you have a tattoo? An actual tattoo? Are you telling me momma’s boy Eddie Kaspbrask has a tattoo?” 

Eddie shrugs aimlessly and wanders back to the loungeroom. “Figure it out yourself, Trashmouth.”

"Is it on your thigh too? Eddie, you can't just walk away now! This is important! Eddie!”


	13. Richie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For almost every previous chapter, I've listened to [That's So Us](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q69LKuvN15o) or [Handclap](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tbyWV7ccaeY) on repeat while writing. This chapter I changed things up and had [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fb_yod_dunQ) on repeat instead and, well... it took me this direction.

_You taste the Deadlights before anything else. A numb medicinal ache like novocaine at the dentist, a not-really-there taste, before the lights themselves obscure every other sense away._

_And then you fall and it’s like falling in your sleep except instead of hitting the mattress you’re hitting the floor of the cavern, hard, and there’s rocks digging into your spine but that’s not important because he’s suddenly looming over you and everything suddenly becomes about_ him. __

 _“Richie!” he says, and he’s smiling wider than you’ve ever seen him as an adult, and you’ve dreamed about this, dreamed about him on all fours above you and smiling, and it’s too good to be true. “Richie, I think I killed It, I think it’s-”_

“Richie! Richie, wake up, c’mon-!”

Richie’s eyes snap open. He sits up immediately, flinging his arms tight around Eddie’s waist and rolling; next thing he knows there’s a crash as the two of them fall entwined off the ledge and Eddie’s wheezing underneath him on the… carpet?

“Oh, fuck,” Richie breathes, blinking rapidly to bring his vision into focus without his glasses before he remembers he doesn’t need to. His cheeks are wet with tears he doesn’t remember crying.“Eddie, I didn’t-”

“Gimme a sec,” Eddie gasps from under him. “You were - you were screaming-” 

Without stopping to think Richie drops his head and presses his cheek against Eddie’s chest. It’s whole and heaving under Eddie’s sensible pyjamas. Richie sends up a silent prayer to the Deadlights, to whatever cosmic god there was out there, that let Richie go on existing in this world with Eddie alive and warm and _here_. 

He doesn’t realise he’s crying again until he realises Eddie’s arms are around him. Eddie rubs small circles on his back and Richie does big hiccuping sobs into Eddie’s chest, and for all Richie’s fears about allowing silence between the two of them, he needed this. He didn’t realise how much he needed this. He hadn’t dreamed about the Deadlights until after he’d left Derry, when he had woken alone and shaking and screaming to a lonely house. It had been better when Bill moved in - when he could have Bill curl up on the bed beside him, confirming what Richie already knew - but it still hadn’t been Eddie. 

“Richie,” Eddie says softly, prodding Richie’s side. “Richie, can you - you’re squishing me.” 

“Urgh,” Richie manages in response, and wipes his face on a drier patch of Eddie’s pyjamas before he tries to roll himself off. His shoulder hits the wall hard as he does so and the physical ache is a welcome distraction. He can’t have been sleeping for very long; it’s still dark enough to barely make out Eddie’s face as Eddie sits up too. The space between the bed and the wall is too cramped for two adults, let alone Myra and any other person - Richie gropes at himself to double-check and groans when he realises he’s still very much her. He tucks his knees up, hugging his arms around them and being for the first time at least somewhat grateful for her extra body mass. It doubles nicely as a cushion.

“So,” Eddie starts, and his voice is too loud for the small dark space between them. “Do you… do you want to talk about it?” 

Richie presses his forehead against Myra’s knees and listens to the small shuffling noises as Eddie stretches out various limbs, tries to listen out for the beat of Eddie’s heart above the one in his own chest. For once, he doesn’t want to talk. 

“...okay.” 

Without warning Eddie’s hand curls around Richie’s ankle. Richie flinches and Eddie pulls away, but before he can pull away entirely Richie reaches out and grasps Eddie’s hand in his own.

Funny, Richie had been so nervous about holding Eddie’s hand in public earlier. He can’t imagine why. 

“...I saw you-” Richie starts to say, voice muffled against Myra’s thighs, and stops before his voice breaks. He screws his eyes up tight and tries again. “When I was - back in It’s lair, when I was caught up in the deadlights, I saw-” 

_”Richie, I think I-!”_

He nearly breaks again but Eddie squeezes his hand and Eddie’s _here_ , Eddie’s _okay_. Eddie’s here because Richie saved him and he doesn’t even know how close he was to _not_ being here.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Eddie says quietly, so Richie nods and doesn’t. 

They sit on the floor together, holding hands in the dark, and for the first and possibly only time, Richie welcomes the silence between them. 

It’s Eddie who finally breaks it, with another squeeze of Richie’s hand. “Rich, much as I’d like to, I’m going to do irreversible damage to my spine if I sit here all night. I love you but I’m not going to risk permanent poor posture.”

Richie gives a weak laugh. “Ha, sorry. Yeah, I’ll let you go.” Reluctantly, he goes to let go of Eddie’s hand. 

Eddie only clings tighter. It’s a fucking cliche but Richie’s heart skips a beat.

“Want me to stay?” 

xxx

**Text from Bill Denbrough to Mike Hanlon:**

_i’ve talked to myra. took me a while but i think i’ve figured out what’s going on here. will let you know details after i check in with richie. love bill_

**Second text from Bill to Mike:**

_p.s. here are the photos as promised. looking forward to richie killing me soon._

xxx

Eddie is a soft snorer and Richie loves it. It’s another reminder that he’s still breathing.

They’ve curled up in Myra’s bed and it’s - it’s weird, when Richie thinks about it like that, when he flexes his fingers and toes and they respond in a way that’s grown somewhat familiar over the course of the last day but is still remarkably alien. Richie fell asleep surprisingly easy earlier but he doesn’t want to go back to the nightmare of what could have been. So instead, he lies awake and listens to Eddie make little snuffling snores into the pillow which Richie entirely plans to make fun of him for later. 

Richie could get used to this, if him and Myra never swap back. It would almost be worth giving up his body for this; for Eddie snuffling softly with his hand still in Richie’s.

Richie’s eyes are starting to close despite himself when Myra’s cellphone rings.

Reluctantly he rolls away from Eddie and swipes it from the bedside table, staring blearily at the number as Eddie stirs beside him. The last few digits look familiar, so he answers it. 

“R-Rich?” Bill says down the other end.

“Oh, hey,” Richie replies as quietly as he can manage. He startles a little at the sound of his voice; in the dark, he’d nearly been convinced he was himself. “What’s up?” 

Bill exhales. “Oh good, I was hoping you’d answer. C-can I talk to you p-privately?” 

Richie glances over his shoulder at Eddie, who’d given a brief “mmm?” when the phone rang. His snoring has resumed now.

“Could’ve picked a better time,” Richie mutters, still speaking under his breath as he carefully slid out from under the covers, trying not to wake Eddie. He pads out into the hall - the door was still open, Eddie must have left it like that when he came in earlier - and closes the door behind him before sitting on the steps, trying to get comfortable. It’s a little lighter out here; the blinds from downstairs must be different to those in the bedrooms if they’re letting in the glow of the streetlamps. “Alright, shoot.”

“Okay-”

“Actually, you know what? Nevermind what you’re going to say unless it’s an apology. What the fuck’s up with you letting Myra go all Queer Eye on me?”

He senses rather than hears the sharp intake down the line. “Uh, yeah, about t-that…”

“Cause like - do you know how close I was to cutting all her hair off myself? Eddie had to physically hold me down-” and Richie slams his jaw shut with a clink of Myra’s teeth because he’s not going to go into any more detail about _that_. Instead, switching tactics, he asks, “Do y’know if Eds has a tattoo?” 

“Richie!” Bill says sharply. “I’ve g-got something to ask you and it’s _important_.”

“More important than wearing a sweater vest that’s not even my colour?” Richie replies, and has to cover his mouth with his hand to keep his voice from rising.

“I’ll apologise later.” Bill’s voice drops too; Richie checks the volume on the cell and then presses it tight against his ear to hear. “L-look, I talked to Myra and she - s-she had Chinese last night and-” 

Richie very suddenly has a theory on what Bill is about to say but wow, does he hate it. 

“Don’t tell me: she got a fucking fortune cookie and I really am just living in a shitty _Freaky Friday_ knock-off.” 

“Well,” Bill says. “Yeah.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah. B-but also, she said, when she opened it, she was thinking about Eddie, and she wished… are you sure Eddie isn’t t-there?”

Richie lowers the cell and listens. He can barely make it out from here, but Eddie’s still breathing evenly. “Yeah, he’s sleeping. Now come on, the suspense is killing me! What’d she wish?”

“Rich…” For all Bill’s desire to get this out there, he sure is hesitant about it. “S-she wished to be someone Eddie could love.”

Even though Richie already checked, he slams the phone to his chest again, holding it tight as he listens out for Eddie until he’s sure nothing has changed.

“So I just got unlucky, is that it? Seven billion people on this planet and a fucking fortune cookie chooses me? I’m just the raffle draw prize?”

“S-she wished she could be Eddie’s soulmate.”

“No.” Richie feels uncomfortably tight in his own - in Myra’s skin. Like his own body has been hiding inside hers and it’s suddenly decided it wants to burst out. “No, she didn’t.”

“That’s what s-she said.”

“Bill, you can’t - you can’t just fucking say that to me, you can’t just - soulmates don’t even fucking exist -”

“Hey, calm-”

“Billiam Denbrough, if you’re lying to me-”

“I wouldn’t,” Bill says, and he says it with such conviction that Richie automatically believes him with everything he’s got. “I w-wanted to tell you before we tell anyone else.”

Richie might faint. He hasn’t fainted for decades, but maybe Myra’s body works differently. “No, we’re not - we can’t - I love him, but we’re not -”

The word “soulmates” catches in his throat. Bill already knows - sure, he knows, and Richie knows too, but the thing is - Richie’s never said aloud that he loves Eddie. He’s said he loves Eddie - love you man, love you Eds - but never with this weight behind it. 

“Are you okay? Richie?” Bill’s voice is too distant through the cell. There’s a roaring in Richie’s ears drowning it out. “Rich?” 

“We can’t - Bill, I can’t do this. Look, I’ll tell Mike to give it up, Myra can buy more sweater vests, I’ll stay here with Eds and pretend we never found a solution and we’ll be, like, those spinster aunts from _Coraline_ -”

“ _Richie,_ ” Bill pleads. “Can I - can we at least tell Mike?” 

Richie shoves his head back against the wall, stares unseeing at the ceiling. Tries to remember how he’d felt this morning, waking up and remembering how good it had felt to get his feelings for Eddie off his chest with Bill after carrying them so close for so long, right before this shitshow began. 

“I’m going to have to tell him, aren’t I?” he says so quietly he barely hears himself. “Bill, should I - should I tell him?” 

Bill is silent - Richie wishes he could reach through the phone and pull him through, wishes he could collapse against Bill’s lap and let him take control of the situation. “It’s up to you.” 

Richie exhales softly. “This fucking sucks.”

That gets a weak laugh out of Bill. “He’ll still l-love you. Even if it’s not-” 

“Not the way I want, yeah.” He scrubs the palm of his hand over his face. “Yeah, I fucking know. Doesn’t make it better.” And before he loses his nerve, “call Mike. Let him know. I’ll deal with -” _Fuck_ , he can’t even say Eddie’s name. “Let’s get this over with so I can start crying myself to sleep in my fun-fucking new haircut.”

Bill eventually hangs up. Richie stares at Myra’s lockscreen until it goes black - it’s around half three, the lockscreen is a stock-standard blur of colours which would have come with the phone - and then he sets the phone on the carpet beside him, covers his face with his hands and silently screams into them until he stops shaking. 

He should be happy. Should be relieved. Apparently the universe thinks he’s Eddie’s soulmate, and Richie should be leaping for joy and doing cartwheels because this is all he’s ever wanted since he was thirteen years old and so desperate to shout about his feelings for Eddie Kaspbrak to the world that he chipped R + E into an old bridge so he couldn’t destroy it the way he did all the paper notes and mixtapes. 

He needs to focus on that. Needs to draw on whatever that strength was the way the clown drew on the fears. He’s not going to get through this unless he does. 

He stands up, legs barely supporting him as he heads back to the bedroom, leaving Myra’s phone on the hallway floor. 

He’s going to do this. He’s got this. 

It’s like Bill said: whatever happens, Eddie will still love him. It won’t be in the way Richie wants to be loved by him, and maybe Eddie will refuse to talk to him for a while, but it will all work out eventually. It _has_ to. 

He’s still shaking as he sinks onto the empty side of the bed, reaching across to nudge Eddie’s shoulder.

“H-hey, Eddie.” It’s Myra’s voice coming out of his mouth and Richie can’t - he can’t do this. Not when he’s her. He’s been hiding behind voices but the only one he needs right now is his own. 

Except Eddie is already stirring awake, blinking blearily up at him. “Mm?” He mumbles, still half-asleep, and Richie wants to touch where his hair’s gone a little curly from being pressed against the pillow. Wants to touch his scarred cheek and kiss him fully awake like the prince did with Sleeping Beauty.

Richie loves Eddie with everything he’s got. It’s the only way he’s going to get through this. 

“That phone call,” Richie says, “that was Bill. He’s figured out... Myra’s told him... look, Eds, I’ve got something to tell you.”


	14. Myra

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the people dying for the Big Reveal from the last chapter: *finger guns* oops? 
> 
> Also happy one month anniversary to me posting this silly little fic I didn't expect anyone to like! Thank you for reading along, I certainly didn't expect to get this far and probably wouldn't have without your encouragement! <3 
> 
> Also this chapter is now dedicated to HoneyToastandIcecream358! happy birth :D

Myra was twenty-seven when her mother died. 

The funeral had been a quiet affair, pulled together by Aunty Pam with minimal input from Myra herself - Aunty Pam wanted lilies, Myra insisted on lilacs - and the Kaspbraks were there, second pew from the front. Sonia had made a fuss of changing seats with Eddie and patting the space next to her son for Myra to sit beside. Eddie had taken Myra to the movies a couple of times during her mother’s illness, which had been lovely of him, but he had been a gentleman throughout and kept his hands entirely to himself. At the funeral, seated beside her, he offered his hand and Myra held it squeezed tight between her own throughout the entire proceedings. 

In retrospect, perhaps they had rushed too quickly from the initial movie date to their eventual wedding.

Myra isn’t stupid. Eddie has been hiding something from her since he up and left for his hometown reunion, and what that something is hasn’t been too hard to figure out. Myra’s magazines had told her what long hours spent at the office (or at least, claimed to be spent at the office) and an insistence on seperate bedrooms meant, but she hadn’t wanted to believe them. The moment she believed them, that was when her ten year marriage would fall apart, and Myra couldn’t - she wouldn’t - let Eddie leave her alone in the world again. 

And if magic hadn’t unexpectedly thrust a second-rate comedian with poor taste into Eddie’s path, perhaps Myra would have been able to dig her nails in and cling a little longer.

She’s not stupid. She knows what she’s been thinking, these last few months, these last few years… if she’s being honest with herself, since the funeral reception, when Sonia gently unhooked Myra from Eddie’s side and drew her into a corner and promised she’d always have the support of the Kaspbraks. She knew when Eddie showed up at Aunty Pam’s apartment with flowers clutched in hand willing to take her out for dinner. When he proposed only a month later, all traditional down on one knee looking like a hero from a _Mills and Boon_ novel, Myra had kissed him with an enthusiasm Eddie didn’t match.

But Eddie had been content. Myra kept telling herself that. On her wedding day, when they bought their house, when the small financial firm Myra worked with decided to close and left Myra little more than a trophy wife, Eddie had been content. He said “I love you” to her when he left to work and before they went to sleep and before he hung up from their calls. During Sonia’s funeral his hand had gripped Myra’s just as hard as she had his. 

Bill Denbrough had tried to be sneaky about it, the way he asked her. 

“We have a friend,” he’d said while Myra was waiting at the optometrist to get Tozier’s eyes checked, because apparently he didn’t keep his prescription details readily on file at home like any normal person with bad vision would. “He’s t-trying to figure out the best way to get you and Richie back to normal, and he t-thinks it might be a wish of some kind?”

Myra thought about it, and she thought about the fortune cookie she’d snapped open last night which read “an agreeable romance might begin to take on the appearance”, and she thought about how she wished that agreeable romance might finally be her own, and she tapped the form balancing on her knees (filled in with Bill’s help).

Somehow, she had always assumed if magic ever reared its head and entered her life, it would be entirely on her side. Not on the side of Trashmouth Tozier, of all people. 

“What I wish,” she said instead, “is for acceptable eyesight and a good haircut.”

And then she’d thought about it some more, as she was fitted for contacts, dragged Bill shopping for some clothes which didn’t look like they came straight from a teenager’s wardrobe, and finally persuaded him about that haircut and a good waxing session with the promise of “not like Tozier can’t grow it all back”. 

It wasn’t until dinner - Bill had been pushing for the ease of takeaway, Myra insisted on salad because Tozier didn’t look like he knew what a salad was - when she finally put her cutlery down and said firmly, “Eddie isn’t gay.” 

Perhaps she chose the wrong moment, because Bill abruptly started choking on his water. 

“S-sorry?” 

“You asked me about what I wished.” She folded Tozier’s arms across her flat chest, still feeling the phantom prickle of freshly-waxed skin beneath the starch of the new shirt. “I ate alone last night because Eddie was working late, and when I opened the fortune cookie that came with it, I wished I was Eddie’s soulmate. I wanted to be someone he loved.”

It sounded pathetic when she said it aloud. Desperate.

“We’ve had a happy marriage, but lately Eddie’s been distant,” she continued to cover her tracks. “Ever since he left to join you on your little high school getaway.” 

Bill, unfortunately, might have missed the last part, because he had risen from his seat and was busy scrambling for a notebook and pen. “S-sorry, can you repeat that wish for me?” 

Myra obliged. Bill slid his glasses on and jotted it down. 

“Tozier’s not his soulmate, though,” Myra added this time. “That’s not possible. From what I’ve seen, Tozier’s a sexist pig, and Eddie-”

Dolled out his kisses like he was dolling out food stamps. Never seemed too invested in their lovemaking, even on their wedding night. Listened to what even Myra would consider an excess amount of Mariah Carey, but… that was just Eddie. 

“Eddie’s a gentleman,” she said, and even to herself it sounded like a lame excuse. Like she’d just realised everyone around her had an inside joke but she hadn’t yet figured out what it was. 

Bill glanced up from his notebook. “Myra, I - I d-d-don’t think I should be telling you t-this, but-”

“Let me get you some more water,” Myra interrupted, because Bill’s stuttering was worse and that didn’t bode well for whatever it was he wanted to tell her. “And then I’ll - I’ll make Tozier’s bed and turn in early. After all, I’ve had a shock to the system and it’s been a _very_ long day. I’m looking forward to waking back in my own bed.”

That didn’t work. Instead, she lay on the freshly laundered sheets in the new pyjamas she’d bought - navy and satin, like the ones she’d bought for Eddie’s birthday last year - and she listened in as Bill made his quiet call next door to the actual Richie Tozier.

She can’t hear what Tozier’s replies are, but she clearly hears Bill say “He’ll still love you. Even if it’s not-”, and it’s too much. 

She’s lost her body and she’s going to lose Eddie. Even if Eddie doesn’t love Tozier - and he can’t, he _can’t_ , remember all those times Eddie used to watch him and mock him! - Myra’s gone and put out a wish to the universe she didn’t expect to be answered, and the universe has decided. 

Myra’s not someone Eddie can love. Eddie might not have loved her for some time.

Myra has been forced by a magic she didn’t know existed into one of the worst days of her life and Eddie hasn’t bothered to call and check up on her once. 

Eddie might have just been pressured into a relationship he never wanted in the first place with a poor, sad, single woman.

She can’t take this. 

“Bill!” She calls out, because she needs _someone_ , _anyone_ , and she may as well take the pitiful author who’s been keeping her company all day despite no doubt being asked by Tozier and Eddie to. “Bill!” 

Bill appears in the doorway while she’s fumbling for Tozier’s glasses. “Myra? Is everything alright?” 

“Just -” She flicks on the bedside lamp and sits up, shoving the sheets from her legs and beckoning him over. “Come here? Please?”

He comes to her willingly, which is a good sign - good, patient Bill Denbrough. Myra’s been toying with him all day to get what she wants, and he’s still here. He sinks onto the bed beside her, close enough for Myra to count the gray hairs in his curls. 

“Is everything al-” He starts asking again, but Myra cuts him off. Grabs his face and crashes her mouth against his before he can finish his question. 

Eddie doesn’t want her. Bill won’t want her, either, but Myra desperately needs to pretend for just a heartbeat that _someone_ out there does. 

Bill is only the third man she’s kissed, after Eddie and Marco from freshman year. It’s not a particularly good kiss; their glasses knock into each other hard enough to throw Tozier’s half-off the bridge of her nose and Bill immediately goes rigid. His hands shove against her chest far too soon and cut the pretending short. 

“M-Myra!” 

“I’m sorry, I just, I need to-” Myra is rambling and it’s so unlike her that it catches her off guard, but she can't stop now. Bill’s hands are still flat against her chest, forcing distance between them; she grasps at the cuffs of his flannel shirt, Tozier's big hands encircling his wrists. She thinks she could overpower him easily if she wanted. “Bill, let me-” 

“Myra, you don’t-!"

“I need someone to need me! Why doesn’t - why doesn’t the universe, why doesn’t anyone _get_ that?!”

It comes out in a rush and Myra - Myra freezes up. She can't say anything else. What else can she say, when she's finally shouted her deepest longing to the universe at large and she knows the universe isn't on her side?

“Myra.” Bill’s glasses are crooked too and he’s looking at her warily, as if expecting her to charge at him again. “It’s - I’m s-sorry.”

Myra slowly lowers her hands from Bill’s shirt to her lap, trying not to alarm him further. Her practical nature has come back to her too little, too late. 

“No, no, it’s - it’s my fault.” She can’t mess this apology up. She’d be losing the only person actually helping her out in this mess and she can’t have that, especially if there’s no easy solution to her and Tozier’s current situation. 

“I heard you talking to Tozier through the wall,” she admits, because that’s as good a starting position as any. “If what I wanted was true - if he’s someone Eddie can love, and magic, or the universe, or, I don't know, Tinkerbell has decided it, then I’m... I'm nothing." Her voice goes small. Her throat itches. "I’m an unemployed divorcee who’s wasted ten years of her life on a marriage which was doomed to fail from the start.” She runs a hand back through her hair and regrets cutting it short when her fingers pass through it far too soon. 

Bill moves hesitantly, adjusting his glasses. The corner of his mouth is slightly swollen and reddened, and for a moment Myra worries about cold sores before she realises with a fresh flush of shame her teeth caused that. 

“W-well," Bill says, and Myra expects a reprimand. "I’m a divorcee who d-didn’t realise until recently I w-was using my wife to replace a girl I once loved. I win.”

This is new information. This is scandalous gossip. “But - but you had _Audra Philips_!” 

Bill shrugs matter-of-factly, like he’s not just said something Myra can easily sell to the magazines for a pretty penny. “It’s complicated,” he admits, “but it’s better this way. It’s b-better to appreciate people for who they are, instead of w-what we want them to be.”

It’s not what Myra wants to hear. What she wants is to be in her own home, in her own body, with Eddie there to remind her she’s not alone in this lonely world. 

“What does Richie Tozier have that I don’t?” she blurts out in his voice, and immediately regrets it.

Bill looks suitably startled. “Would you b-believe," he says, and to her surprise, rather than scooting further away, he reaches over and pats her knee. It's not much but it is a small comfort. "Sometimes... he actually has a few good ch-chucks up his sleeve."


	15. Richie + Eddie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *drum roll* and here it is, the one you've been waiting for!

Richie’s come up with a thousand different ways to say “hey, I’m in big gay love with you” to Eddie. All hypothetical, of course, because it’s something he _never_ planned to say aloud. Not unless Eddie co-operated with ways #112 through to #158, all of which involved Eddie somehow - somehow! - getting in there with a confession first, to which Richie could then reply, “Wow, me too!” or, like, turning up to the baseball field at the last minute where Eddie stood eagerly anticipating the first real kiss of his life. 

But Richie’s life isn’t a Drew Barrymore movie, unless Drew Barrymore was in a film where she switched bodies with her love interest’s wife (and somehow Richie highly doubts that). What Richie has instead is this: the witching hour of three in the morning, a frilly pink pillow to hug to his chest so he has something to do with his hands, a queen-size bed, and a sleepy Eddie Kaspbrak/childhood best friend/first boy he loved/man he still loves who Richie just forgot for a while thanks to freaky clown magic.

Somehow, Richie hadn’t prepared a way to confess “hey, I’m in big gay love with you” for this particular situation. 

“Bill’s figured it out?” is what Eddie says as he wriggles out from under the blankets to sit upright, and Richie takes advantage of his struggling to grab the nearest pillow because his hands won’t stop trembling and he can’t have Eddie seeing that even in the dim light. “What, are you - did you-”

Eddie’s staring at him warily and it takes a moment for Richie to make the connection. 

“Oh, right!” He fumbles behind him for the bedside lamp and winces as light floods the room. “Yeah, it’s still me squatting here! We haven’t - haven’t switched back yet.” 

Richie’s blinking rapidly to let his eyes adjust and so he might be imagining the way Eddie relaxes.

“But Bill’s found something?” Eddie splays his fingers across his face to yawn into his palm but he’s alert now. “Please tell me it _wasn’t_ Myra wishing to get into your pants after all?”

“And what if it was?”

“I don’t want to think I’ve been living with someone who has such poor taste,” Eddie replies with a grin. Richie briefly considers explaining how - surprise! - it was actually _Richie_ who wanted to get into _Myra’s_ pants so he could get into _Eddie’s_ , ha ha, isn’t that funny Eds? “Now c’mon, spill the beans!”

Turning on the lamp was a mistake, because Richie can see Eddie nice and clearly and he’ll see when Eddie’s face goes - bewildered? Confused? Angry? Upset? Richie’s grip on the pillow tightens. Any tighter and he might rip the seams. 

Bill on the phone, only minutes ago: _He’ll still love you._

Eddie, back in Derry: _Would it be okay if after I break things off with Myra I… come stay with you? Just for a bit?_

Eddie, laughing in the diner at Richie’s stupid joke, stroking Richie’s hair as Richie lies across his lap, holding Richie’s hand in the dark. 

Richie’s got this. 

“Okay, so - so Bill rang, right?” He starts, for lack of anywhere better else to start. He can work back to the _oh and I’ve had a thing for you most of my life_ angle from there. “I dunno if you remember that since you were snoring-”

“I don’t snore!”

“Yeah, you do, and it’s real cute!”

“I don’t-” Eddie huffs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Okay. Moving on. Hurry up and get to whatever it is Bill had to ring for.” 

“Yeah, well, the thing is, Eds…” Richie shifts on the bed, tucking his legs under him so he can sit cross-legged. He hasn’t sat like this since kindergarten, which is fitting since he feels like he’s about to own up to stealing the last cookie from the cookie jar. “You should be glad you finally got around to watching _Freaky Friday_ because it’s real, and it’s out there, and Myra only went and made a damn wish on a fortune cookie last night.” 

“You’re fucking kidding me.” 

Richie laughs. “Would that I was, Eddie my love!” 

“It was a _fortune cookie_?” Eddie covers his forehead with his hand, drags it down his face with a loud groan. “Look, I haven’t changed the bin today, the message is probably still in there, you can stick your hand in it and-” 

“There’s more!” Richie interrupts before Eddie forces them to go rummage through the trash, and - oh, there’s the familiar anxious churning in his gut. He presses a hand flat against his abdomen; it feels more like a phantom gurgle than a physical one. Like Richie’s convinced himself this _should_ be his reaction but Myra’s body didn’t get the memo. At least, he doesn’t _think_ he’s going to suddenly puke all over the bedsheets and possibly Eddie too. That could put a damper on his upcoming confession.

“What else is there?” Eddie says, somewhat warily because his gaze has followed Richie’s and he’s noticed. “You’re not - not getting your period, are you?”

“Fuck you!” Richie says automatically, before he glances down and is reminded that, oh yeah, that’s _entirely_ possible now. He presses down harder on his abdomen in sudden panic but there’s no cramps or anything. That’s how you figure it out, right? Through cramps? “Fuck, that’s not - that’s not going to happen!”

“It, uh, might,” Eddie says awkwardly, which doesn’t help matters. “Myra never really talked about it-” 

“That’s-!” Richie grits his teeth, forcibly dragging himself back to the conversation he doesn’t want to be having. He can worry about biology afterwards, when Eddie’s no doubt run off to Georgie’s or some other place where he won’t have to look Richie in the eye. “Look, forget that for now. When Myra got her fortune cookie she went and made a goddamn _wish_ on it, like Mike said, and-” 

It’s on the tip of his tongue. He’s so close. Just _say it_ so it’s there and it can hang between them and maybe Eddie will know what to do with it and maybe he won’t but it’ll be out of the closet and unable to go back in because the closet was child-proofed or something. 

“Myra-wanted-to-be-someone-you-loved-and-also-to-be-your-soulmate-and-also-I-guess-that’s-me-and-here-I-am!” 

He finishes with jazz hands. 

Eddie stares at him. “Richie...”

Jazz hands? He’s telling Eddie they’re soulmates and he goes with fucking _jazz hands?_

“Rich, I... didn’t catch a single word of that,” Eddie says blankly. “Could you go over it again?” 

xxx

Richie repeats it. Slower, so Eddie can actually absorb it. 

The first thing that hits him is, to his surprise, guilt - maybe he should have just, you know, _spoken_ to Myra? Maybe he could have gone to her straight off the bat if she also was aware something was off in their relationship. Maybe he never should have asked her to marry him in the first place, even with the pressure from Sonia and his own desire to mark off another step of adulthood.

The second thing that hits him is: wait. _Wait_. If _that’s_ what Myra said but it’s _Richie_ here saying this...

Richie’s grinning but it’s a weak grin which doesn’t meet his eyes, more teeth and clenched jaw than actual amusement. He’s clutching the pillow in front of him like a shield. 

“So, you, uh… you gonna say anything, Eds?” 

“Soulmates,” is what Eddie says. He runs the word over his tongue, lets it settle in the crevices of his teeth. “You - you and Myra switched bodies because a fortune cookie thinks you’re my _soulmate_?” 

Richie - Richie fucking winks and finger-guns at him. “Bingo! That’s…” He goes back to clutching his pillow. “That’s the running theory, anyway.”

Eddie steeples his own fingers together and rests his chin on them, elbows on his knees. “Right. Cool. So we’re… you and I, me and you…”

Eddie hasn’t believed in soulmates since - well, ever. Being raised by a single controlling parent in a small town full of shitty adults will do that to you. It was one of the reasons he proposed to Myra as early in their courtship as he did - it wasn’t like a better option was out there waiting for either of them.

Of course, he’d long forgotten the Losers and Richie Tozier by that point. 

“...platonic soulmates?” Eddie muses. He doesn’t realise he said it aloud until Richie starts laughing - short hollow barks which hit like they’re meant to puncture Eddie’s lungs. 

“Eds, Eddie, Eddie-my-love!” Richie says, all sing-song as he claws at the pillow in his lap and refuses to meet Eddie’s eyes. “Last night I - I kinda made a wish of my own. And I didn’t tell you about it because I thought, shit! That’s the _worst_ thing to wish because I’d have to admit to you it’s the reason I suddenly ended up like, y’know, _this_ , and then Myra goes and… and Eds, Eddie, I’m only gonna say this once, because I’ve been thinking about it since Derry, when you showed up all - all small, dark and handsome, which for the record is _so_ unfair when I had only my scruffy ass to show for the last thirty years, and I thought about it back when we were kids and you used to - you had that stupid fannypack and those pinchable cheeks-”

Richie stops, inhales sharply, and says: “Eds, the thing is, I never actually wanted to fuck your mom, because I’m actually so fucking gay for you.” 

“...I’m sorry, _what_?” 

It escapes Eddie before he can stop himself, because - what the fuck? How the fuck is he meant to decipher _any_ of that, let alone respond to it? Maybe he’s still asleep and lucid dreaming? 

“It’s fine!” Richie throws his hands up abruptly, eyes blown wide and he’s - déjà vu hits Eddie over the head with a baseball bat - he’s panicking. “No, no, it’s fine, I don’t - I’m not expecting you to say it back, or anything! Just putting it out there that, like, if the universe thinks we’re soulmates, it’s - it’s kinda my fault, too, because I’ve kinda been in love with you since we were kids and I just forgot about it for a while.” 

Eddie tries desperately to break this truckload of information into bite-sized chunks, and what he manages is: “What do you mean you’ve been in love with me since we were kids? You never - you never said anything!” 

“Oh, sure, cause I was _absolutely_ gonna tell you when I had Bowers and a fucking clown on my ass taunting me about it!”

“Wait, _Pennywise_ knew? The fucking _clown_ knew before I-!” 

Déjà vu announces itself with a second swing: _himself, at thirteen, surrounded by the Losers, heart pounding, and asking: “Rich? What are you afraid of?”_

“Look, I’m not proud of this, okay?” Richie is saying, still all in a rush, and he’s probably going to need a Strepsil or honey lemon tea to soothe his throat with how fast he’s talking. “It’s not like I didn’t want to have this thing for you, it just - it just kinda happened! And it stuck! And I’m forty and so far in the closet I’m hanging out with Elton John in the early 70s and I literally sat around waiting for _months_ hoping you’d just show up on my doorstep hoping for some - some fucking Drew Barrymore romcom, and-” 

Eddie’s still trying to grapple with this. He’s still trying to catch up. 

“Uh,” he says, clearing his throat. “I, uh, think I might be, too.” And then, to clarify, “The gay thing, that is, not the - waiting around for Drew Barrymore thing.”

Considering he’s only been toying around with the idea for twelve hours or so, it feels… kind of good to say it aloud. Like the naming of it makes it real. _Hi, I’m Eddie Kaspbrak, and I’m gay_. 

Richie finally allows himself to draw breath, and Eddie - Eddie had almost forgotten it was Myra’s body across from him and he aches because he wants _Richie_ here. He wants Richie to be staring at him with Richie’s eyes behind Richie’s glasses, Richie to be stammering with his own voice. 

“But - but Myra-”

“You know how I feel about Myra,” Eddie reminds him firmly. 

“But… but if _I’m_ gay… and _you’re_ gay…” 

Eddie leans forward, reaching out a hand to cover Richie’s hands where they’ve managed to pull the pillowcase half-off the pillow. The skin is soft and smooth beneath the pads of his fingers apart from the metallic bump of Myra’s ring. He gingerly touches Richie’s neck with his other hand, curling his fingers beneath the blond hair tied messily at the nape, and Richie’s breath hitches. They’re close: close enough that Eddie can maybe, just maybe, pretend the freckles are stubble again, can maybe pretend the colour of Myra’s eyes were different. 

A lifetime ago, seated in Georgie’s, Eddie admitted to Richie that he didn’t know who he was. He still doesn’t know the answer but he thinks he likes the Eddie he is when he’s around Richie. 

But as much as Eddie tries, Myra’s freckles remain freckles and her irises remain the same colour. 

“Rich, I…” He closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to see Richie’s face, touches his forehead lightly to Richie’s and stills there. “I can’t. Not when you’re…” 

“Can we when I’m back to myself?” Richie pleads immediately, like he knew exactly where Eddie was going with this. “That’s - if you want to, that is, I don’t wanna pressure you or anything, I didn’t even expect you to still be sitting here, I honestly thought-” 

“Beep beep, Trashmouth,” Eddie murmurs with a softness which catches himself off guard. This is - whatever this is, it’s new and fragile, like a baby bird tucked delicately between his ribs. “Now why don’t you go back to talking about how handsome I am, cause lemme tell you, that’s doing wonders for my ego.”

“Fuck you, Eds,” Richie says, high and giddy, and despite it being Myra’s voice, it’s Richie’s smile Eddie sees behind his closed eyes.


	16. (Eddie +) Mike

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh boy I struggled with this one, but it's written and it's here and onwards we go - I'm thinking we're on the home stretch now!

**Text from Bill Denbrough to Mike Hanlon:**

_talked to richie. have attached photo of my notepad i wrote what myra told me exactly. have sworn off fortune cookies for life all over again. let me know if u can’t read my writing. don’t mention this to eddie unless richie says u can! hope this helps! love bill_

xxx

Eddie wakes first. No surprise there. 

Riche - Myra? Maybe? - faces away from him. At some point - maybe even before they fell asleep for a second time, coherent thoughts always take a little while to kick in after Eddie first opens his eyes - Eddie’s arms wound themselves around Richie’s (Myra’s?) waist. Their spine curves back against Eddie’s torso, and each slow inhale and exhale reverberates as if Eddie grew an extra set of lungs overnight just to breathe on their behalf. 

Last night, Eddie had - 

God, had he _really_ nearly kissed Richie? 

One of their purchases from yesterday doubled as the shirt Richie wore to sleep last night, after Richie joked he’d be open to wearing a nightgown again - “shows off the legs, Eds!” - but needed time to warm up to it. The sleeve of the shirt has slipped during the night, revealing the mole on Myra’s shoulder, and Eddie - 

Eddie wants it to be Richie. If Eddie has to suffer from backache due to spooning as opposed to stretching out straight like the sleep guides recommend, then he wants it to be Richie he’s spent most of the night holding. Eddie wants it to still be Richie looking at him through her eyes. He’s not ready to deal with the real Myra yet and have the conversation with her he’s been putting off for months, nor is he quite ready to confront Richie when Richie is himself again and expecting Eddie to… well, Eddie will cross that bridge when he gets to it.

Is it really so terrible, Eddie ponders, to hope that Richie and Myra haven’t swapped back yet? 

Probably. 

He feels guilty for even considering it. 

If it’s Richie, he must be as heavy a sleeper as Myra is, because there’s barely any stirring as Eddie carefully untangles himself and slides out from the sheets. 

Later: Eddie stands at the bathroom sink, staring at his reflection in the mirror, and he thinks _so this is the guy Richie Tozier loves_.He doesn’t look any different to how he looked last night or twenty-four hours ago. He _should_ look different; there should be _something_. 

“Hey, I’m Edward Kaspbrak,” Eddie says to his reflection, and it’s no different than the hundreds of times Eddie has done this before while preparing himself for interviews and conferences. Except for maybe the cheek scar, but Eddie has had three months to grow used to that. He prods at it anyway and then announces with all the flourish of greeting a new client: “I’m gay and I think I have a thing for horrible comedians.” 

That one’s new. That one’s different. Eddie says it again, and watches the smile tugging at his reflection’s mouth. A third time: “I’m gay and I-” 

He dissolves into giddy champagne laughter, covering his mouth with both hands so Richie/Myra won’t hear down the hall. It’s like being in the Derry quarry after defeating Pennywise all over again. _So this is what it’s like to love and to be loved._

Not that he, like, _love_ loves Richie or anything. But Eddie does love Richie - has always loved Richie, for all his stupid jokes and voices and stubborness - and he’s starting to think he might be capable of the kind of love Richie wants. The _love_ love. Richie does have nice shoulders, after all. 

Richie/Myra is still asleep when Eddie checks, so he scribbles out a note to leave on the bedside table next to Myra’s phone which he’s retrieved from the hallway after nearly stepping on it: _Gone for a run, back soon, Eds. P.S. still haven't taken the bin out, gloves are in cupboard under sink, have fun searching for that fucking fortune cookie_.

It’s not until he’s stepped outside and locked the front door behind him that he realises he signed the note with Eds instead of Eddie. 

xxx

Mike wasn’t lying when he’d told Bill it felt good to be researching again. 

His original plans for Sunday had been to check out St. Louis Cathedral and then simply meander around from there - his favourite kind of day, the kind of day where he could close his eyes at any given moment, think about how far away Derry was, and then open them again to delight in how around every corner lay something he never could have imagined back in Derry. To keep himself going over the years, he had started up a notebook where he wrote every place he longed to visit once Pennywise was defeated - mostly filled up from the nights when the loneliness hit the worst, where Mike would spend nonstop hours browsing books or google for destinations and comforted himself with _one day I’ll get there_. 

But he’s out now. He’s free. The _one day_ he’s always thought about is _today_ and Mike’s determined to make the most of it. 

Having Eddie unexpectedly ring and relay that Richie swapped bodies with his wife wasn’t a distraction from Mike’s plans. It was an _opportunity_. The notebook he buys to record his research into this new and unexpected phenomenon is from a store he wouldn’t have gone into otherwise. The occult stores and bookstores Mike would have gone into anyway - you can take the librarian out of the library, but you can’t etc -, but he might not have even glanced at the books he pulls off the shelves. 

It’s frustrating that he wasn’t able to quiz Richie, Eddie, or Myra the way he wanted to, but he could make do with what he had from here and attempt to come up with an understanding of the _how_ and _what_.

So when he wakes on Monday morning in the motel room he’s treated himself to, accidentally sending a few books falling off the bed as he stretches, he’s actually looking forward to getting back into it. 

At least, until he reads the text Bill sent him last night while he was sleeping (and while Bill should have been sleeping too, if Mike’s got the timezones right). 

Bill’s handwriting is a little scrawly but it’s not hard to make out. Nevertheless, Mike mutters it to himself as he reads it, and then fumbles for his glasses to hold the screen closer and double-check. 

“Oh,” he mutters to himself. Talking to himself was a habit he’d gotten into back in Derry, and he hasn’t yet shaken it. “Oh no.” 

He puts the phone down, picks up the notebook he’s currently dubbed “The Curious Case of Richie and Eddie’s Wife”, and skims over the notes he made yesterday before reaching the next blank page. 

Okay. He needs to be alert for this. The answer is there - it _has_ to be there - wriggling away in the back of his mind; he just needs to become the early bird. 

He closes the notebook and purposefully doesn’t look at it again until he’s showered, dressed, and comfortably full of coffee and the croissants he’d had the foresight to buy yesterday afternoon. Only then does he sit down at the small desk in the corner of his motel room and open it back to the blank page. 

He copies down Bill’s text and Bill’s handwriting first, attempting to forge it as best he can - he’d never let Bill find out but he’s quite good. Mike owns a few signed copies of Bill’s novels and used to copy out the signatures for fun, as a way of feeling closer to them as they spread out further and further from Derry. 

Once it hits half eight, he texts Bill: _you up?_

He waits ten minutes, and when there’s no reply he calls Eddie. 

“Hello, Mike from Derry,” Eddie says when he picks up, which is the standard greeting for Mike now from most of the Losers. He sounds oddly light; Mike can almost hear the smile in his voice, which is… unusual, for a man currently dealing with an impossible situation. “What’s up?” 

“Hello to you too, Eddie Kaspbrak,” Mike says, and smiles despite himself when Eddie gives a little amused chuff. Then, remembering Bill’s text, “is Richie there?” 

“I’m out on a run. Whoever’s in Myra’s body is back home, probably still asleep. We, uh - we didn’t get to sleep until pretty late. I’m an early riser and even I got up after the sun did.”

“Whoever… what, have they swapped back?” That would certainly make Mike’s life easier. 

There’s a small noise down the phone, like an _eh_. “I… don’t know? I didn’t wake him - didn’t wake them before I left.” 

Mike crosses his fingers. It’s a small silly superstition, but if Mike’s learned one thing, it’s that you can’t discount the little actions. Especially if his theory for what this is - and how to swap them successfully back, if it looks like Richie’s spending a second day as Mrs Kaspbrak - has any truth to it. 

“Can you let me know when you find out? Cause I’ve been going over my notes -” no need to mention Myra’s wish - “and if it’s still Richie there, you might be getting a few visitors soon? I’ll need to sort out my car, but a flight can have me there by mid-afternoon; same with Bill and Myra once I get in contact with them.”

Mike can hear cars rumbling past Eddie before Eddie says, “I’m sorry, _what_?”

“Trust me?” Mike asks, and it’s a lot to ask. He hates asking it; it gives him flashbacks to the last time he asked the Losers to trust him and how great _that_ turned out. At least none of them had been seriously wounded in the aftermath. “If Richie’s still there with you, we’ll get him back to normal by tonight, and you’ll no longer have to be married to him.”

Eddie laughs softly. It doesn’t sound genuine. “Yeah, that’ll - okay, I’ll get the house ready. Anything else I should be gathering? Am I gonna need another inhaler to burn?”

It stings, just a little. “Just you, yourself, and Richie. Maybe the fortune cookie message if you can find it.”

“You know about that?” Eddie says sharply, right as Mike thinks maybe he shouldn’t have divulged that information to him. 

He hesitates. Touches the pages of his notebook, where he’d copied out Bill’s text. “I know bits,” he concludes truthfully. “I’ll have a better idea when I get there. Text me your address?”

The good news: he'll get to mark Eddie's home as visited in the back of his travel notebook. 

The bad: he might be needing to perform another ritual tonight, and look how well that last one turned out.


	17. Richie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in a bold move: I actually began to plan this fic out to the end! feeling like I have four chapters (or possibly five) left to go... we'll see how long that lasts ;)

The bedroom he wakes up in isn’t his own, but at least Richie recognises it now. 

“Shit,” he groans, rolling onto his back and shoving a hand back through his hair as he yawns. His fingers catch in the strands and his scalp stings a little as he forcibly tugs them loose, because oh yeah, he’d tied it back last night. Maybe Richie was going to be grateful when he finally went bald after all. 

God, he’d been having a good dream for once. He’d blurted out everything he’d been forcing down to Eddie and Eddie had - he’d put his hand on the back of Richie’s neck and drawn him in and - 

Wait, fuck, that was _real_. Like, _actually_ real. Eddie _had_ only gone and seen Richie announce his dirty little secret complete with jokey gestures and for some fucking reason Eddie had gone “yeah, I could be into this”. 

Maybe not in those exact words, per se, but like... 

“Oh my god,” Richie says, and then buries his face in his hands because _oh my GOD_ Eddie might like him. Little Edward Francis Kaspbrak with his nose crinkles and his stupidly beautiful smile and his dumb fannypacks that evolved into dumber polos and _oh my GOD_ Richie has a chance! Richie has a fucking chance with Eddie Kaspbrak and he’s going to die, right here and right now, in the same bed Eddie probably lost his virginity in. 

Actually, speaking of Eddie…

Richie stops doing victory shimmies under the duvet and scrambles upright. “Eds?”

 _Eddie’s regretting it and he’s run off. He’s taken off. Of course he did, of course he has, it was like three and he probably thought he was dreaming, why would he ever want-_

There’s a note on the bedside. Richie grabs it so quickly it nearly tears and skims it over with his awesome eyesight.

Okay, so Eddie’s gone. It’s what Richie expected from the beginning. But he left a note, which Richie hadn’t unexpected, and he signed it _Eds_ , which sends Richie into what’s possibly early on-set cardiac arrest. 

There’s a soft thud from downstairs, like a door closing. 

Richie is up like a shot; he skids in front of the wardrobe mirror and barely reels back from his reflection - fuck, forgot about that, it doesn’t seem important right now, it’s barely a blip on Richie’s priorities list. Instead he focuses on straightening (ha!) himself up: untying his hair and retying it so it at least looks _artistically_ messy as opposed to a bird’s nest, adjusting the neckline of his shirt so it’s not slipping down - then changes his mind and tugs it down over one shoulder anyway because what the hell -, pats his cheeks to make it look like he didn’t just jump out of bed. 

And then he freezes, midway through neatening out his eyebrows. 

“What the fuck am I doing?” He asks his reflection like maybe it’s going to give him an honest answer. Surprise, surprise: it doesn’t, and sure, that got a little weird, but it’s fine. Richie can breeze past it, and you know why? Cause he’s got hope in his chest and a spring in his step and nobody in all of Oz is ever gonna bring him down! 

“Eddie!” He practically sings as he heads downstairs. “Good morning!” 

Eddie glances up from where he’s standing over something fizzing away in a frying pan. He opens his mouth to say something, but Richie beats him first without even trying. 

“Dude, what the _fuck_.”

“...Richie. Take it that’s still you?”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s still me,” Richie agrees, but his thoughts are elsewhere as he grips the back of one of the kitchen chairs for support. “How are you, like, an old man and yet you _still_ look good wearing shorts?”

Eddie - Eddie does that little half-annoyed, half-pleased scowl. All frowny and flushed. “They’re better for running, okay? I can pull up the articles if you want, it helps with circulation and-”

Richie wants to count all his forehead wrinkles and kiss him for each one. Oh god, he’s so whipped. 

“Doesn’t explain why your legs are so toned,” he says instead.

Eddie groans but it’s accompanied by - yep, that’s a smile! It’s small but it’s there and Richie made that happen! “Because I _run_ , Rich. Keep up.”

“Sir, yes, sir!” Richie gives a mock salute and slides onto the chair he’s been leaning on. Eddie’s smile is undoubtable now. 

“So, uh,” Eddie says, turning back to the frying pan. It smells like bacon. “Mike rang earlier?”

Richie stiffens because - well, shit, he’d forgotten about Mike. He’d forgotten the world existed outside of this house. Eddie hadn’t run, and Bill had turned out to the best ally Richie could have wished for, but Mike… “Yeah?”

“He, uh, said if you were still you, that he’d have to come up here.” Eddie carefully moves the bacon from the pan to the plates he’s already lined up on the counter. “So that’s good.” 

“And did he say anything about…” Richie considers pulling off a weak jazz hands but decides against it - he’s never going to do jazz hands again in his life without judging himself. “Y’know?”

Eddie glances over and, oh yeah, he knows exactly what Richie’s referring to. “How would he know?” 

Richie gulps. “Cause I, uh, told Bill to tell him.”

“Oh,” is what Eddie says. He runs the empty frying pan under the sink and leaves it there, gathering the plates up and setting them down on the table. One for him, one for Richie. “Well, that explains a lot.”

“Did he… uh, did he ask-”

Eddie shakes his head and goes to sit on the opposite side of the table before he hesitates and then slides into the seat directly next to him. “Nah, he was just jumpy.”

Their bare knees are knocking together at this angle, and unlike the diner, this time it’s deliberate. It’s _got_ to be deliberate, the way Eddie’s not quite meeting his eyes as he digs into his breakfast. 

Eddie gets in all of five bites (no, Richie wasn’t counting) before he flings down his cutlery and says: “Who else knew before you came out and told me?”

“Nice choice of wording there, Eddie-my-love,” Richie says before he can stop himself around a mouthful of weird-tasting bacon. “I might have implied some stuff to Bill the night before I woke up like-” he gestures at himself. “And then when Bill told me what Myra wished, I said he could, y’know, pass it onto Mike. In case it helps with his research or whatever on how to get us back.” 

Eddie waits, as if expecting more. “...and that’s it?”

Richie shrugs. “Eds, I’ve been repressing this shit for decades. Maybe this weekend was me finally hitting my boiling point.”

Eddie mouths “decades” and then he groans, staring down at his plate. “Fuck, Rich, you should’ve -”

Richie hastily shoves a finger against Eddie’s mouth, shushing him. “Nope! Nope, you’re not going to ruin my grand coming out with regret.” He’ll have plenty of time for that later, when Eddie no doubt changes his mind about what he said to Richie last night. But right now the sun is shining, the day is young, and Richie might have a chance with the love of his life. “Just sit back and let me keep talking about how your legs are in ridiculously good condition for someone with a desk job, and know I’m not saying it in a bro way.” 

Eddie grabs Richie’s wrist, tugging his hand away from his mouth. “Yeah, okay, I get it, you think I’m - hot.” He says it with a roll of his eyes, all snakes and snails and sarcasm, but there’s the slightest hesitation before he says “hot” that makes Richie want to throw himself at Eddie all over again but, like, tenderly. 

“And? How’s that make you feel?” Richie’s testing dangerously shallow waters but he needs to know. Needs to know _now_ in case he’s coming on too fast, too strong, and a blue-ringed octopus is about to latch onto his ankle.

Eddie prods at his bacon with a shrug. “To be honest?” He nudges his knee against Richie’s under the table. “Pretty damn good. You might have had a chance if you’d been sprouting this stuff back in middle school rather than wanting to fuck my mom every five seconds.”

Richie’s always wondered how he might die, how Bev might have seen him die in her dreams. Well, now he knows for sure what he once only suspected: Eddie Kaspbrak is going to be the death of him. 

“It was you I really wanted to fuck, you know that?” 

“And you’ve ruined it!” Eddie throws his hands into the air in mock surrender. “Just like that!” 

“No shit, Eds, I’m serious!” 

Eddie scoffs but when he looks at Richie… yeah, Eddie knows. “Shut up and eat, Rich, you’ve barely touched your food and we need to clean the house a bit.”

Richie glances around the glistening kitchen. Everything seems spit-spot to him. “Why?”

“I told you, Mike’s coming.” Eddie prods at his bacon again, and then says a tad quieter, “So are Bill and Myra.” 

Eddie’s kidding. He’s got to be kidding, and this is going to be something great to laugh about once Richie’s got a joke planned. 

Then he realises how carefully Eddie’s avoiding looking at him.

“You’re kidding.”

“Look, Mike said-”

“Eddie, what the fuck!” 

“Mike said!” Eddie repeats, louder. “If you were still you, he was going to get a plane up here and fix it himself. Myra needs to be here too for whatever ritual he’s got planned, so-” He waves his fork vaguely. “Good luck looking yourself in the eyes, I guess?” 

“I can’t let them see me like this, Eds!” Richie exclaims, hiking his shirt back up over his exposed shoulder like he’d only just remembered to be embarrassed about it. 

“Rich, they all know what you’re going to look like, it’s fine-” 

“It’s gonna make it real,” Richie says, barely aware of what he’s saying. “I’m still not fully convinced this isn’t a dream, but if I see Bill and Mike - fuck, if I see _Myra_ -” He drops his head into his hands with a groan and swears again, drawing it out for emphasis. There’s a hesitant touch to his back and before Eddie can tackle him into a corner again, Richie adds hastily: “I’m fine, I’m just… gimme a moment. I’ve barely been coping one-on-one with you. See Example A: me blurting out what I’ve held back my entire life after barely twenty-four hours into whatever this is. God knows how I'm gonna go when I meet your actual wife and have to put up with her judging me with my own face. Talk about a blow to the old self-esteem.” 

Eddie’s hand settles heavier on his back. “Good news is, we’ll get you back to yourself. And, uh…” Eddie’s hand is warm through Richie’s shirt. “Personally, I’m pretty keen to get you back to you. Just saying. Now, you gonna help me get this house ready or what?”


	18. Myra

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I googled flights from LA to New York for this and despite the answer being "five hours" I couldn't make head-nor-tail of why the check-in and check-out times were so much more than five hours. Therefore timezones in this fic are irrelevant... (wait now that I'm typing this out it's hitting me that maybe the check-in/check-out times were due to the timezones being different.... down the research rabbit hole I go again)

Myra doesn’t like airports. 

When Bill wakes her to let her know he’s booked two seats on a flight going out to New York on the advice of his mysterious all-knowing friend, Myra makes sure to tell him so. She tells him again as he helps her freshen up Tozier’s already-mostly-packed suitcase, and when she’s staring at her reflection in the bathroom mirror debating whether to put in the new contacts or stick to glasses. She’s sure she read somewhere contacts affect eyeball shape on flights and/or dry out the eyes. Bill suggests she stick to the glasses for now and maybe put the contacts back on when they reach the other side of the U.S, and Myra nods and slides them back on, knuckling them up her nose. 

The lenses only magnify how tired Myra looks. No surprise there. She hasn’t been able to look at Bill straight since waking up, considering what she’d done to him last night. That had been - well, frankly, it had been embarrassing. 

It wouldn’t be quite as embarrassing if Bill had played along and kissed her back when she pleaded, but beggars can’t be choosers. Myra’s not going to bring it up again - she did her apologising last night - and Bill, thankfully, hasn’t brought it up either, even if he does seem to be operating at a distance as if worried she’ll try for another forced kiss.

She’s not going to even think about her husband. She’s not going to think about her husband’s reaction to whatever Tozier told him. She’s certainly not choosing the outfit she thinks will make her look her most handsome as she cuffs the sleeves of the blue collared shirt to show off her biceps to their best advantage and pairs it with a gray blazer to draw attention to her shoulders. Not that Myra possibly knows what Eddie might possibly find appealing in a man (if Eddie even swings that way, that is; she’s still not convinced), but Myra doesn’t think she looks half-bad. It’ll be better once she lands in New York and can put the contacts back in for full effect. 

Bill certainly stares when he sees her, which is a good sign. 

“What do you think?” She asks him briskly, indicating her collar. “Like this-” She deftly undoes the top two buttons. “Or like this?”

“Uh,” Bill says. “The second one.” He hasn’t made an effort to dress up himself; he’s in the same scruffy jeans he wore yesterday and a near-identical flannel. Nevertheless, Bill Denbrough was an attractive man - he may not have appreciated their kiss last night but it was almost worth the embarrassment for Myra to know she was able to lay one on him. However briefly. Imagine, little Myra Wilkes kissing a best-selling author who’d been married to one of the most sought-after actresses in Hollywood! 

It’s almost enough to make Myra forget their planned airport excursion, and it’s not until she’s telling Bill again in their uber how little she likes airports that he looks at her - really looks at her this time, where her knuckles are white from how tightly she’s clutching the grab handle. 

“M-Myra,” he says, in that cautious stuttery way of his. “Have you ever b-been to an airport?”

“No,” is Myra’s swift response. The car trundles over a speedbump and Myra grips the handle tighter to keep her head from hitting against the roof, the pit of her stomach lurching slightly. “They’re a festering ground for diseases.” 

Her worst fears are realised as she enters the airport itself; a family group pushes past them and Myra jumps back, colliding into Bill’s side like a damsel in distress hoping for the handsome knight to shield her. It would probably work more effectively if she wasn’t a good head taller than Bill. 

“Is there a place we can buy sanitiser?” She asks desperately, latching onto Bill’s arm with one hand and using the other to brandish Tozier’s carry-on suitcase before her like a shield as the youngest kid licks his palm and chases after his sister with a shriek.

Bill insists on getting them through check-in and security first - “The g-germs won’t be getting _you_ , remember, they’ll be getting Richie” - and then he steers her in the direction of a store which, thankfully, does sell small bottles of hand sanitiser. 

Myra insists on buying at least four, shoves them into the pockets of her blazer and pants, and promptly empties one into her hands the second they take their seats on the plane.

“You take some too,” she says to Bill, holding out her gooped-up palm. It’s an order. Who even knows who was sitting on these very seats before them? At least Bill sprung for first-class, so that was something to take comfort it. 

Bill - bless his heart - cautiously scoops some into his own hand, and Myra forces herself to relax. She won’t think about how she’s essentially sitting in a containment which would easily spread viruses, a machine which could easily fail and fall… and if it does, well, it might be like _Lost_ , and Myra could be forced to share body warmth with a handsome doctor to survive… before, of course, they began to suffer from dehydration or starvation, and her handsome doctor began to speak of turning to cannibalism… 

Myra needs off this plane. 

“Bill,” she says urgently, prodding his elbow. “Bill, I need-”

Unfortunately, this is when the plane begins to whir to life and the air hostesses begin their information spiel. 

Strangely enough, the pointing out of oxygen masks and lifejackets does little to quell the uneasy lurching in Myra’s stomach. 

Bill must recognise something in her expression, because he’s suddenly shoving a paperbag into her hands. Myra takes it gratefully. 

Miraculously, she doesn’t begin the first flight of her life throwing up, although it was a close call. By the time the air hostess has approached to take their drink orders, her insides have thankfully relaxed enough for her order a coffee with soy the way she likes it.

“See?” Bill says, with a nudge of his shoulder to hers. “Nuh-not so bad, huh?” 

He’s taken the window seat, and when Myra looks out it’s just blue and gold and white. Sky and sun-streaked clouds. She almost wishes she’d taken his seat, so she could press her face up against the glass, but then she thinks about how far away the ground might look and a shudder rolls down her spine. 

“It’s pretty,” she admits anyway.

The flight goes smoothly after that. Bill pulls out his laptop after the seatbelt signs stop glowing to write (Myra asks what it is he’s writing, Bill goes quiet for a long moment before saying “a story I don’t want to forget again”). Myra settles in front of her small screen, hovers over an old Trashmouth special for a while, and eventually selects _Pretty Woman_ because she needs comfort viewing rather than a reminder of the life awaiting her if her and Tozier never swap back. 

Telling jokes for a living while crowds of people watch. Urgh. Myra’s going straight back to admin work if she’s stuck like this, and Tozier better have good enough qualifications to get her started.

She follows up _Pretty Women_ with _Notting Hill_ , and by the time Myra’s appropriately teary over “I’m just a boy in front of a girl” - if only Eddie could give her a similar proclamation - if only _anyone_ could give her a similar proclamation - the seatbelt light flicks back on and the plane’s descent begins. The sky through the plane window has gone dark; golden lights sparkle like stars in the twilight until Myra realises with a start that it’s electricity. Street lamps and buildings.

Bill must notice because he smiles at her as he slides his glasses to the top of his head, laptop packed back into its bag. “Not long now. Everything okay?”

Myra tests out her legs. Sonia had told her once about a friend who took a sleeping pill on a cross-country flight and woke on arrival to discover a swelling in her calf which would later be diagnosed as a blood clot. Myra’s been doing the required exercising all flight - little rotations of her wrists and ankles every ten minutes or so to avoid her joints cramping - and it seems to have done the trick, even with legs as long as hers currently are. 

She confirms this to Bill, and as she does so she suddenly worries that she hasn’t been checking up on him nearly enough.

“You are aware of the dangers of sitting still on such a long journey yourself, right?” 

“Uh,” Bill says, and it’s all the answer Myra needs to know no, he isn’t. 

If it had been Eddie, she would have prepared him on the dangers before the flight was even booked. Eddie would have done his own research too, given her hints he’d found himself on how to prevent such problems and how to deal with them should they arise. Typed them up and printed them off in nicely ordered bullet points so Myra could read through them thoroughly. Who else was going to care for Myra like that now? 

Then again, Myra thinks as she the golden lights outside the plane window grew nearer, maybe if Eddie and her had never listed out potential risks for possible situations, this might be an experience she was already familiar with. There might be another Myra here, one who wasn’t afraid as the ground rushed up to meet the plane with a thud which rattled her teeth and had her convinced the plane was about to crash as it sped the runway, the way Bill wasn’t afraid and even yawned before the plane finally - finally! - began to slow. 

Bill fishes out his phone as the announcement of a successful landing passes over the speakers.

“Letting t-t-them know we’ve arrived in one p-piece,” he explains, and after a moment his phone gives off the _ding_ of a received message. And then another. And then another. 

“Mister Popular,” Myra observes wryly.

Bill either doesn’t appreciate or doesn’t catch the joke - he’s busy prodding at his phone with his pointer finger. Eventually he must find what he’s looking for because he stops, eyes growing wide. “Uh, Myra…” 

He tilts the phone towards her. 

He has a news article on the screen. Big black letters on white read **Horrifically Funny: ‘Trashmouth’ Tozier gets cozy with Audra Philips’ ex** , and underneath there’s a photo of herself and Bill. Well, _Tozier_ and Bill, technically. It was taken at the LAX, when Myra pressed herself up against Bill’s side and clung to him like a lifeline. 

“Audra sent the link to me,” Bill explains. “S-she wants to know why I’m off on another luh-last minute trip.” He groans, runs his fingers through his hair and knocks his glasses off the top of his head. Myra takes the phone from him as he scrambles to pick them up from the floor, skimming the rest of the article. 

_Bill Denbrough (40), horror writer, recently separated from Audra Philips in a move which stunned fans... Tozier unexpectedly cut short his tour dates after having apparently forgotten his own jokes only moments after being announced onto the stage... Tozier and Denbrough’s friendship revealed itself only recently through social media interactions and sightings of the two together out and about... beginning around the same time both Tozier and Denbrough experienced these dramatic upheaval in their professional and personal lives respectively_...

Myra starts laughing. She can’t help it: it’s the perfect distraction to the impending destruction of her own life.

“Oh dear,” she giggles, deep and throaty as she hands the phone back to Bill once he’s snapped his glasses securely into their case. “I’ve never made headlines before! Can you imagine if they knew we kissed last night, too?”

Bill inhales sharply, shakes his head, and scrolls further down. 

There’s another photo. This one’s of Bill and Myra seated on the airplane, in their current seats, apparently holding hands.

“The s-sanitiser,” Bill whispers as he leans closer. “W-whoever took this is on the plane."

Myra glances around. People are already moving to leave, and no-one is looking towards them, but if their mystery photographer was listening in... "Oh."

Bill groans, rubbing at his temples. "'Oh' is r-right. Fuck."


	19. Eddie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> stephen and andy didn't explain how magic/supernatural stuff works therefore I don't need to either, I say as I try to piece together magic lore in this fic like lego bricks
> 
> (also I would die for mike hanlon in case I haven't already made it obvious)

They’re waiting on Mike when Stan posts a link to the article in the Losers group chat, with the accompanying caption of _Are you guys off on a vacation without me?_. Ben responds with a single emoji, followed by Bev commenting _wow you clean up nice @trashmouth!_ and then _but seriously where are you going??_

Richie, to Eddie’s bewilderment, starts laughing. 

“They didn’t refer to me as ‘disgraced comedian’, for once!” He points out brightly, scrolling back and forth on Eddie’s phone. “That’s a win!” 

“Yeah, but…” Eddie doesn’t know where he’s going with this. Maybe he’s been reading this entire situation wrong, but he doesn’t _think_ Richie’s made any public indication towards his sexuality before this whole switcheroo. It certainly didn’t come across in his stand-up or interviews. Eddie practically has Richie’s wiki page memorised, and surely any information on this would be front and centre. “They think you’re dating Bill? Isn’t that - upsetting?” 

“It’s Bill,” Richie says, as if that’s explanation enough. He doesn’t seem like he’s burying any other reaction further down but then again Eddie’s apparently been an oblivious idiot towards Richie’s true feelings for years, so. “It’s funny! Maybe we’ll have a summer wedding.”

“Rich, I’m being serious-”

“If I’m lucky I’ll get a few sentences in a trashy magazine and maybe I’ll be considered relevant enough to be asked to take part in a celebrity gameshow next year,” Richie interrupts, pushing his chair out and making his way over to the fridge. His tone is light, but his hands have gone straight to the pockets of Myra’s jeans. “It’s gossip, it happens! Joys of being a shitty D-lister. Want a beer?”

“Not yet.” Eddie and Myra were near-exclusively wine drinkers, but Eddie had grabbed a couple of six-packs on Richie’s insistence earlier while buying extra supplies for their unexpected guests. 

Richie shrugs. “Okay, lemme know if you change your mind.” He cracks open a can, takes a swig, and immediately turns to spit it out into the sink. 

Despite his concerns - or maybe because of them, since he’s all jittery himself at the reminder that Richie has like, a public image - Eddie grins. “Ha! Told you it wouldn’t agree with your tastebuds.” 

“Urgh, whatever.” Richie flips him the bird before wiping his wrist across his mouth. 

The doorbell rings. 

“Oh fuck, finally!” Richie perks up. “Mike time!” 

Sure enough, it’s Mike Hanlon at the door when Eddie answers it, duffle bag slung loose over one shoulder and a paper bag held in the crook of his arm. “Eddie!” 

“Mike from Derry!” Eddie stands back to let Mike enter, and only after Mike sets down the paper bag on the hall table do they embrace. Mike gives the best hugs and he feels wonderfully solid against Eddie. After going for months avoiding Myra as best he can and tiptoeing around Richie these last two days, it’s a welcome change.

“Thanks for having me at such short notice,” Mike says, voice as warm as the rest of him. “Where’s your lucky lady?” 

“That’s Mrs Richie Kaspbrak to you,” Richie says from behind Eddie, sounding for all the world like a rich housewife of Beverly Hills - the only Voice of his that’s really worked since he’s been Myra. “C’mon, shouldn’t I get the welcoming hug? _I’ve_ been the one suffering here!” 

Mike’s eyes widen. “Oh wow... it really _is_ you.” 

“What gave it away?” Richie teases, practically tackling Mike as soon as Eddie steps back. “How’s the travelling going, man? Florida everything you’d dreamed? Get those all those hot grandma phone numbers?” 

“You know it, Trashmouth!” Mike replies, teasing right back like Richie’s not busy looking like Eddie’s wife. “Met this one girl on a gator farm, just turned ninety - you’re invited to the wedding, of course.” 

“I call dibs on best man,” Richie says enthusiastically, and without missing a beat adds, “or maid of honour, whatever. I’ll get a custom made Marsh gown for the occasion.” 

“We’ll settle on best man,” Mike replies with a certainty that’s extremely welcome. “Hey, Eddie, can I dump my stuff somewhere?” 

Eddie leads him to the upstairs bedroom he’s been using as his own - sleeping arrangements are going to be tight with three extra people, but him and Richie spent at least an hour discussing it and ultimately decided they’ll cross that bridge when it comes to it (talk about ridiculous domesticity). It might be that Eddie’s sleeping on the couch tonight instead of the mattresses he’d bought especially to help support his posture, but one night won’t hurt him. He hopes. 

“Sorry for the short notice,” Mike apologises again as he drops his bag at the foot of the mattress and crouches down, rummaging through it. “How’ve you been going?”

“Honestly? You want the honest answer?” Eddie rubs the nape of his neck and, unbidden, thinks about holding Richie’s hand in the dark. Myra’s hand, really, but it had been easy to pretend it was entirely Richie with the lights off. His cheeks feel warm. He hopes he isn’t blushing. “It’s been a fucking rollercoaster.”

Mike gives a short laugh as he stands back upright, clutching something in his hand. “Yeah, sounds about right. Do me a favour and stand back against that wall?” 

“Uh… okay?” Eddie does as instructed. “Is there a reason, or-”

“Hold still a moment,” Mike takes a step away from him and holds what looks like a monocle to his eye. 

“What are you-”

“I bought this a while back,” Mike explains, his right eye closed as he squints through the - may as well keep calling it a monocle - with the other. “Direct order to Derry. It’s meant to be able to detect auras, particularly magic ones.” 

“Okay,” Eddie says, and then: “Wait, what?” 

Mike gives a low whistle. “Yeah, looks like a strong one…” He slowly turns his head, taking in the rest of the room. “You can move now if you want.”

Eddie’s not sure he can. He feels very much like a butterfly pinned to a board. “Shouldn’t it be Richie or Myra you’re checking for that shit? I don’t - I’d know if I had any magic aura stuff on me.” 

Mike exhales softly, lowering the monocle and tucking it into his pocket. “Bill said not to mention this with you until I check with Rich first, but… has he told you about Myra’s wish?” 

“He told me last night,” Eddie confirms, shoulders tense against the wall. He’d talked to Richie about this too, about what they were going to say if Mike or Bill or Myra started questioning the whole soulmate thing. Eddie thought he’d prepped himself up enough to talk about it, but when he opens his mouth what comes out instead is: “So, uh. You can undo this, right?” 

Mike hesitates. Oh, Eddie wishes he hadn’t hesitated. 

“Eddie…” Mike turns back to his bag and tugs out a small notebook and a glasses case. He clicks the later open and slides them on, and watching him do so Eddie feels strangely old beyond his thirty-nine years. “I have a theory, and that’s all I’m saying. No promises but-” He licks a forefinger, flicking through pages of the notebook. “Well, I’m going to keep my fingers crossed, but first, I need to ask you something kinda personal.” He glances at Eddie over the rims of his glasses. “Sorry.” 

Eddie shifts his hands a little behind his back, digging his thumbnails into the sides of his forefingers. “Alright, hit me.”

“Do you love Myra?” 

“No.” It comes out immediately, as surely as that day at the quarry when this truth lapped over him like the water. 

“Okay.” Mike nods and glances back to the notebook, tapping his thumb against it. Once, twice. “Guess it's silly to also ask if you love Richie, right?”

Eddie’s mouth is dry. “In, uh, what way?” 

Mike jerks his head up. “Huh?”

If this is even a tiny portion of how Richie felt last night before he told Eddie… Eddie hates it. Hates the universe and magic and whatever the fuck else for forcing Richie to voice it before he was ready. 

And then he thinks of the way Richie looked at him this morning across the kitchen table. How he’s caught Richie looking at him all day, before Richie quickly turns away. The way he’s always caught Richie looking at him, even when they were kids, except now Eddie knows what it means.

“I love Richie as a friend, the same way I do all of you,” Eddie says slowly, testing the waters. “Except I think… Mike, I think I might be able to love him as more.”

“Oh?” Mike says, and then his brow crinkles. “ _Oh_.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says.

“And does, uh, does Richie-”

Is Eddie shaking? He might be shaking. “Yeah.”

Mike drops the notebook onto the bed and crosses the room, gathering Eddie into a tight hug, and Eddie lets out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding as he buries his face against Mike’s shoulder. Fuck, was Mike alway this tall?

“Okay,” Mike says, his breath stirring the top of Eddie’s hair. “Okay, that makes things… interesting, I guess? Might be a little trickier to untangle.” 

That’s not what Eddie wants to hear. 

“But you said you had a solution?”

“I said I had a theory,” Mike corrects as he lets go of Eddie, sounding and looking sheepish. “I, uh… I didn’t take into consideration that you and Richie might-” 

“You Losers gonna get down here or what?” Richie yells from downstairs, perfect timing as always. “I’ve nearly finished my second beer already, and Mike’s has damn near gone warm.” 

Eddie and Mike exchange glances. 

“Coming!” Eddie yells down, and then turns back to Mike. “But - you can, right? Swap them back?”

“Eddie,” Mike says hurriedly, with a light touch to Eddie’s forearm. “Which of them would you want more? Myra or Richie?” 

Eddie stares. “Mike, I just told you-!”

Mike shakes his head. “No, sorry, I mean - would you rather have Richie in Myra’s body, or a Richie that's not quite Richie in his?” 

Eddie’s missing something. He’s gotta be missing something. Either that or Mike’s lost it somewhere on his travels, and Eddie can’t have _that_ while Mike’s possibly holding the solution to this whole mess. “Mike, that’s a dumb question.” 

Mike’s fingers tighten slightly around Eddie’s wrist, like he’s about to press whatever that question was again, and then he lets go. “Sorry, it’s kind of a weird one. But think about it, okay?” 

Eddie does think about it, while the two of them head downstairs. He’s never been good at riddles and this feels like one, so he’s relieved when Richie pounces on them, pressing a beer can into Mike’s hand before turning to Eddie, and there’s a question in his expression - _did you tell him? Does he know?_

Eddie nods, hardly knowing he’s doing so, and Richie’s grin meets his eyes as he holds out a glass of white wine. Eddie takes it gratefully, and as he does so Richie’s fingertips deliberately brush against his own like little electric sparks. 

He’ll try and analyse what Mike’s asked later. It’s a dumb question and surely it’s not important. It can wait.


	20. Richie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dropping everything to spend the weekend barhopping in Sydney doesn't count as procrastination, right? right?
> 
> (so maybe I'm still feeling a bit dusty but the fic must go on!)
> 
> (also in contradiction to my prediction a few chapters back, the next chapter definitely isn't the last.)

Richie has been through a lot of experiences in his life he’d classify as weirder than the average person’s experiences. There was the whole Pennywise deal, after all, and the all those attempts he was nearly murdered/eaten which accompanied It, and the thirty-odd years of supernaturally-induced amnesia, and that one time he’d accidentally ended up DJing for Paris Hilton’s pet pig. 

Looking himself in the eye without the use of a mirror or recording equipment, Richie feels, certainly qualifies as weirder than the average person’s experiences. Especially when the person he’s looking at is the love of his life’s wife and she’s staring him down like they’re about to back up ten paces and enter a quickdraw.

Richie had tried to look at least somewhat decent, really he had - okay, so Eddie had been the one to veto Richie’s new favourite sweater today - but now he feels underdressed. And isn’t _that_ a weird reaction to have on meeting the person he’s silently despised for the past three months.

What’s weirder is that it doesn’t… it doesn’t feel as _weird_ as it should. 

Like, rationally he knows that the body across from him is his own. He knows he’s spent forty years carting it around. He’s walked that thing around and brushed those teeth more times than he can bother to remember (the one hygiene habit he’s never faltered on, because son of a dentist, etc). He should feel possessive of it, right? Like he wants to clamber back in there and zip it up nice and snug around him?

But he doesn’t. In fact, he’s feeling kind of content in his current skin, and… shit, that’s a _terrifying_ thought, don’t go there.

Super weird, right?

“Richie,” Eddie says, appearing at his shoulder like a guardian angel. About time he untangled himself from Bill and got over here to help. He touches Richie’s shoulder lightly and Richie leans into it without thinking. “Richie, this is Myra. Myra, this is Richie.”

Myra nods sharply. “Richie Tozier,” she says, and - surely Richie doesn’t sound like that? Richie would know if he sounded like that. If he does sound like that, he might have to burn any and all of his stand-up recordings.

“Enchanté,” Richie manages. “Well, this is pretty fucking weird.”

“This is r-really fucking weird,” Bill agrees from where he’s standing awkwardly on the sidelines with Mike. Richie adds it to another reason he’s going to be eternally in Bill’s debt after this whole thing is over. “Sorry to interrupt, b-but where’s the bathroom?” 

“Upstairs, second on the right,” Myra and Richie chime in eerie synchronisation. 

Eddie’s fingers abruptly dig into the loose material of Richie’s shirt.

“...right,” Bill says, backing away. “B-be right back.” 

“I see you’ve made yourself at home,” Myra says as Bill disappears up the stairs. She crosses her arms across her chest, uncrosses them, lets them fall at her sides. With Richie’s body and her straight-backed posture, she looks like a fancy Slenderman. Well, a fancier Slenderman. Who’s been taking exercise program suggestions from Bigfoot, maybe.

“It’s a nice home,” Richie says sincerely, silently adding, _for anyone other than Eddie._ Eddie, who’s been unable to takes his eyes off Myra – the Richie Tozier original model – since Myra and Bill arrived, and which Richie is silently begging is a compliment to the confessions they’ve made and not just because with hair swept artfully to one side and no glasses, Richie’s only now realising just how much of his face is taken up by his forehead. Maybe Eddie is regretting everything.

When Eddie does speak again, though, it’s to say a little too loudly, “Who wants a drink? I could do with another drink. Any takers? Mike?” 

“Sounds good,” Mike agrees immediately, ever agreeable when he’s not trying to manipulate them into becoming an alien snack buffet. 

“Richie? Myra?” Eddie says, glancing from Myra to Richie like he’s watching a ping-pong match. “I mean, Myra? Richie? I mean...”

“Can we talk,” Myra says abruptly. “Just - just us.” As if the direction of the invitation isn’t clear enough, the way she’s still staring at Richie certainly is. 

Richie doesn’t particularly fancy having a one-on-one conversation with Myra. He’d been hoping Mike would immediately perform whatever voodoo was necessary on the two of them and send Richie crashing back into 100% Tozier time. 

Instead, his answer is a reluctant “Sure” and he watches longingly as Eddie steers Mike into the kitchen. He wishes he’d learned Morse code at some point with his life, so he could blink out a message to Eddie and Eddie could blink one back instead of simply looking anxious before the door swings shut. 

Myra sinks onto the couch, stretches her legs out in front of her, and says, “I won’t bite.” 

“That’s good to know.” Richie’s not willing to take the plunge of sitting yet in case he needs to run. The only conversation the two of them had enjoyed previously involved Myra screaming down the phone in his own voice while Richie screamed back in hers. “I might, considering what you’ve done to my hair.” 

“This?” Myra touches the nape of her neck. She looks genuinely surprised, which is… well, surprising. “It looks good on you. I did you a favour.”

“It’s not a favour I asked for,” Richie says shortly, even though admittedly it doesn’t look as bad up close. It actually kind of works in their favour, since it makes Myra look less like Richie Tozier and more like Richie’s long-lost brother, or some random white guy in the street who looks vaguely familiar but you can’t place how. Still… “The only reason yours-” He points to the head he’s currently using, “-isn’t currently in little pieces down the drain is because Eddie physically held me down to stop me finding the scissors.” 

Myra bristles. “You were going to cut my hair?” 

“You cut mine!” 

“That’s different! Yours was _unkempt_ , I had mine done only a week ago-” 

“My hair wasn’t unkempt!” 

There’s a loud creak behind them; Richie swivels to see Bill hovering awkwardly on the stairs. 

“S-sorry, it’s-” Bill rocks his foot back and the stair creaks again. 

“The others are in the kitchen,” Myra sighs, pointing in the direction. Bill gives her a grateful smile and a thumbs up before disappearing through the door. Fuck. That’s something Richie’s _also_ got to deal with. Maybe Bill’s not the great friend Richie thought he was if he’s putting the moves on Myra (a married woman! Married to one of Bill’s best friends!) while she’s currently looking like Richie (sure, this _Change-Up_ mess-up has forced him to tentatively stumble out of the closet, but he’s not ready to pull a full Diana Ross!).

 _@myself: stop. You’ve been the subject of rumours before, you know they always fade, and why would_ Bill _like Myra anyway_ …

Richie stops pacing, staring down at the rug beneath his neatly painted toenails. He doesn’t even _know_ Myra. Maybe she _is_ just that lovable and he’s had things wrong this entire time.

As if reading his mind (fuck, maybe swapping bodies has given them a mental link? That would _suck_ ) Myra mutters “This is ridiculous”, and grabs Richie’s wrist before he can bolt, yanking him down onto the couch next to her. 

“Hey!” Richie protests, immediately scurrying back as far as the couch will let him, his foot colliding with Myra’s shin in the process. “Warn a guy!” 

“We need to talk,” Myra says, wincing a little as she leans over to rub at her leg. Richie had been grateful yesterday for the couch’s lack of space when it had been him and Eddie; he’s feeling a lot less forgiving right now. “I need to know… I need to know what’s been happening between you and my Eddie.” 

_My Eddie_. Richie’s fingers dig into the edges of the couch. Maybe he should tell a fabricated version of events, where Eddie _had_ kissed him and they made sweet, sweet love all night long in Myra’s bed. 

Instead, he says, “Maybe you should tell me what’s been happening between you and my Bill first.”

Myra stiffens. “You first. Since the universe is entirely on _your_ side, apparently, and it turns out wishes are nothing like they made them out to be in fairytales.”

“I didn’t ask for Eddie to be my soulmate!” Richie snaps. “Don’t make out like this is _my_ fault, just because _I’m_ willing to love Eddie better than you ever could.”

The chattering coming from the kitchen stops. 

Richie had never realised his face could go quite that colour.

“Who do you think you are?” Myra says quietly. It’s been freaking weird listening to his own voice like it’s a manipulated recording, saying things Richie never said, but this doesn’t sound like him in the slightest. “To just – to show up and act like you’re the Chosen One, like Eddie’s life until this point hasn’t mattered. Like I’m nothing but a bump in the road on your way to the perfect happy ever after, is that right?”

Myra doesn’t know what Richie and Eddie have gone through. Myra doesn’t have a fucking _clue_. “That’s not-“

“I don’t know what Eddie’s told you. I don’t know what you’ve told him. I was hoping we could discuss this like reasonable adults, but I should have known better. You might be interested in my Eddie, and he might not – we might not have the relationship I thought, but he certainly can’t have any interest in _you_. I’ve seen your shows - Eddie used to make fun of them, you know?”

On second thought, actually: maybe Myra is a straight-up bitch after all.

Richie can play at that game.

He leans back against the arm of the couch, twirling a strand of hair around his fingers and gnashing his teeth together in a mock attempt at chewing bubblegum, popping on the Southern Belle voice for good measure. “Well, mah darlin’, comedy is subjective and all. Has dear Billiam mentioned to you our collective group amnesia? No? Allow me to tell you, then, that if I’d had the privilege – the true joy! – of remembering good Edward all these years, I would have whisked him away _long_ before you ever caught a whiff of his inhaler spray.”

Myra stands up abruptly.

“Fuck you,” she says shortly, and her eyes widen like she’s startled at herself. They’re surprisingly bright and big when they’re not hidden behind Richie’s glasses. “I’ve been nothing but kind to you and your body, Tozier, and what I wanted to say was – what I wanted to say was that I’m sorry for putting you in this position because I _hate_ this! Your eyesight is atrocious, you had enough hair on your chest for a new shag rug, and your nails…” She shudders, and Richie automatically drops his gaze to her hands – his hands? Fuck. “Don’t even get me _started_. This has been my own personal hell, and on top of it all, I’ve been forced to face a new chapter in my life I never allowed myself to consider. Because as much as I wish it, I _know_ now I can’t be someone Eddie loves – not the way I want or deserve to be loved.” 

Richie opens his mouth, closes it, and then sits upright, scrubbing his hands over his face so he won’t have to – won’t have to look at Myra like she’s currently embodying every negative thought Richie’s ever told his own reflection. He’s barely aware of Myra sitting back next to him until she reaches for his hand, peeling it from his cheek and holding it delicately between her own, examining it like it’s a starfish she’s plucked from a rockpool. Richie resists the urge to snatch it back, nerves prickling where she’s touching him. Where he’s touching her.

“You’ve already picked up dirt under my nails,” she says simply, as if she hadn’t just been ranting at him a moment ago. If this is how she acts with Eddie, no wonder he’s keen to escape her. “I’ll have to go for another manicure if your friend switches us back.” She traces a small raised line on the thumb that Richie hasn’t recognised until now. “I was a girl when I received this,” she murmurs.

Richie shakes his hand free, thumb-scar and all, and takes her own hand in his, flipping it palm-up. “See this?” He taps the middle of her palm – his own palm, the one he should be using as his own, the one he knows like the back of his hand (ha, fucking ha). “When I was thirteen, Bill cut a line across here with a piece of broken glass, and he cut one into Eddie’s too. That was the summer it hit me I was in love with that dumb kid, and the scar’s gone now but my feelings for him haven’t. Trust me, I’ve tried.”

Myra’s fingers curl slightly inward like hooks. Like she’s going to dig her fingernails in to create new scars. “I’ve tried, too. Look where it’s gotten me.”

Richie very nearly says _should have tried harder, shouldn’t you?_ It’s there on the tip of his tongue.

Thankfully, this is when Eddie himself pushes the door open with his shoulder, glass of wine in one hand and a can in the other, awkwardly announcing himself with “Sorry if I’m interrupting, but I thought you might like a drink?” in the full polite momma’s boy mode he’d usually kept up around Sonia Kaspbrak.

“Oh, thank fuck.” Richie quickly scrambles to his feet; Myra does the same with better grace. “We’ll come join you guys. Thanks, Eddie.”

“Thank you, Eds,” Myra says, smile a little awkward, and Richie doesn’t miss the way Eddie’s eyes flicker up and down her again – that better be a compliment for Richie himself. Surely he should take it as a compliment for himself?

It’s not until they’ve joined the others he realises he took the wine glass automatically and Myra – who Eddie fervently insisted hated everything about beer – is drinking out of the can without protest.


	21. Eddie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't know what to say here for once other than: here we go!

_Meanwhile...._

“Who wants a drink?” Eddie says desperately, because there’s only so much he can take and he needs an _out_ , and he needs it _now_. "I could do with another drink. Any takers? Mike?”

“Sounds good,” Mike says immediately, and Eddie loves him for it. 

“Richie? Myra?” Eddie says, and - shit, did he get it right? Did he line up the right person with the right name? When it had been just Richie it had been easy, but now Richie’s body is thrown into the mix, and the downward tug of Richie’s physical mouth is familiar for all the wrong reasons,and it’s - it’s really distracting. “I mean, Myra? Richie? I mean...”

Richie - no, _Myra_ , it’s Myra beneath that nice-cut blazer, while Richie is the one Eddie’s practically hanging off the back of - interrupts by addressing Richie - the real one - oh, _fuck,_ Eddie’s already had a couple of glasses in anticipation of this reunion but he’s not going to be able to get through this without another drink. Or two. Or a bottle. 

He shoots a silent apology towards Richie as he practically manhandles Mike into the kitchen and, once it closes behind them, promptly collapses back against the kitchen door. 

“Mike,” he says hoarsely, like he’s just run a marathon instead of experiencing one of the most awkward encounters of his life. “Mike, has Richie always been that...” He struggles to find the right word, because the words marching through his brain right now are ones he’d like to keep tucked away there, _thank you very much_. Better not to say anything at all, and then when Richie and Myra are back to normal _maybe_ Eddie will consider casually bringing up “Hey, Rich, have you always been… kinda hot...?” 

But then his daydream takes a sharp dip into a PG-13 rating with the possible promise of R approaching - wow, okay, good to know the whole being gay thing is something he’s slipped into all too well - so Eddie shakes it off and starts to pace instead, back and forth across the kitchen. If he stomps loudly enough, maybe his footsteps will effectively disguise whatever it is Richie and Myra are saying to each other out there. 

“Eddie,” Mike says, and Eddie startles like a wild horse. He’d forgotten he wasn’t alone. “You alright there?” 

Eddie shoves a hand back through his hair. He yanks at it a little, trying to tug himself back to the present. God, he feels an absolute mess, and it’s been all of like ten minutes since Myra and Bill showed up. So maybe he’d been avoiding thinking about the inevitable reunion by getting Richie to clean the house with him, and maybe it’s now hitting him all at once. What about it?

“What part of ‘my wife and Richie are talking and it’s probably about me’ makes it sound like I’m okay?” 

He takes up pacing again, because it’s easier to keep moving. 

“Eddie,” Mike says again, softer this time. “Do you remember what I asked you earlier?” 

“Yeah, yeah, something about-” Eddie waves a hand vaguely as he spins on his heel. “Choosing between Richie and Myra, which is fucking dumb, cause-”

“That’s not _exactly_ what I said,” Mike counters, then sighs, shaking his head. “Look, I didn’t get to tell you in full before, and I didn’t wanna say it in front of Richie, so…” 

Eddie halts mid-footfall, and in the unexpected quiet he can hear raised voices from the lounge-room. 

Eddie asks “Are you holding back information again?”, and then when Mike clears his throat and doesn’t meet his eyes: “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I’m going to tell you now, cards on the table,” Mike says quickly, dropping to the kitchen table as he does so. Eddie, after a brief hesitation, slides into the chair beside him. “I only didn’t tell you before because it - well, it wasn’t the right moment. Mind you, it’s a theory. Despite its media popularity, wish magic is surprisingly rare in action, particularly when it’s generated by individuals rather than talismans.”

“The fortune cookie-” Eddie begins, but Mike shakes his head again.

“No, I think -” Mike drums his fingers on the tabletop in an irregular rhythm. “Eddie, I think it was you.”

Eddie pushes his chair out. “If you’re not gonna be serious about this-” He doesn’t get far because Mike is suddenly gripping his elbow, halting Eddie in his attempt to stand.

“Eddie, listen: you’re expelling background magic like - like radiation!” His hand still grasping Eddie, he pulls out the monocle with the other. “Here, put your hand flat on the table and look at it through this.” 

Mike looks up at him all sincere and pleading and - this might all be bullshit, whatever Mike’s theory is, but Eddie’s got to go along with it. It’s the only one they have.

Of course, this is when the kitchen door clicks open behind them. 

“Whoa, it’s just me!” Bill says, hands up in surrender as he nudges the door closed with his shoulder. “W-what’s up?”

Mike visibly relaxes. Eddie uses the opportunity to snatch his arm free, and then, as if on second-thought, plucks the monocle from Mike’s willing hand.

“How are they looking out there?” He asks Bill first, because if anything’s happened to either of them he’ll - 

Let’s be honest, he doesn’t know what he’ll do.

“Awkward,” Bill says, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jeans as he half-perches himself on the kitchen table. He nods towards the monocle clutched between Eddie’s forefinger and thumb. “W-what’s that?”

“Detects magical auras,” Mike says, and although Eddie still thinks it explains nothing, Bill nods and goes “ah” like he gets it. And if Bill’s immediately on board, well…

Eddie places his hand palm-down on the table and squints at it through the small glass as instructed. 

He thought there might be _some_ change, at least. Like a slight magnifying effect or a different shade like sunglasses. Instead, there’s no difference to how he sees his hand normally, and fuck, this is stupid. He thought Mike might actually have had something.

“You can’t look at it directly,” Mike pipes up, right on schedule. “You’ve got to focus on your hand and kind of… skim your eyes without losing that focus.” 

Eddie tries. He really does. “Yeah, that’s not fucking working, it’s-” 

There’s a shout from the lounge-room: _“I didn’t ASK for Eddie to be my soulmate!”_

There’s _something_. It’s like a ripple in a body of water as it momentarily catches sunlight, blinding in its intensity before it blinks out of existence, tucked neatly between Eddie’s forefinger and thumb and impossibly blue, like a peacock feather…

Eddie’s head snaps up. 

He can’t process whatever it was he just saw but right now it doesn’t matter, because the voice had been Myra’s... which meant it had been Richie’s… and he’s still talking but now Eddie can’t make it out.

It’s like someone’s dumped a bucket of ice water over him.

Mike and Bill must have heard too, if the way they’re exchanging glances is anything to go by. 

“Hey, Eddie…” Mike reaches for Eddie’s arm again, gently tugging him downwards. This time, Eddie sinks back onto the chair without protest. “Cards on the table. When I - when I started piecing this together, the theory I came up with didn’t include… I didn’t think you might actually have feelings for Richie that way.”

Eddie’s only just gotten used to recognising and thinking about those feelings himself, but if Richie’s out there claiming he didn’t want this... despite everything they’ve talked about… 

“The wish was for Myra to be your soulmate, right?” Mike says instead with a glance towards Bill, who nods in confirmation. “I don’t think… I don’t think Richie is actually your soulmate. I think the wish…” He flicks through his notebook, taps at the notes. “I think it’s _creating_ your soulmate.”

Eddie takes a moment to process that. And then he takes a moment more, because: “What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means that…” Mike sits up a little straighter, like a lightbulb’s been switched on above his head. “Say Richie is your soulmate. I’m guessing that’s the way you interpreted it?”

Eddie nods. It had seemed straightforward enough. That’s the way it worked in those movies, the ones he’d researched yesterday. 

Bill nods too, which is surprising until Eddie remembers that Bill was like the only person who knew about this before Eddie did. That, if anything, calms down his nerves better than any placebo could. 

“W-where are you going with this?”

“I’m getting there,” Mike says, and he’s drumming on the table again. “Sorry to get personal again, but… is it his mind or his body you’re attracted to?”

“That’s another dumb question,” Eddie replies bluntly, because it is. 

Mike nods. He nods and asks, “So you and Richie haven’t kissed while he’s been in Myra?” 

“I - what?”

“Mikey!” Bill cuffs Mike’s shoulder, and he looks kind of flushed, which is nice of him since he’s defending Eddie’s honour and all that. “T-that’s their business-!” 

“My theory is that your background magic jump-started Myra’s wish, and it’s reshaping Myra into someone who can be your ideal soulmate,” Mike explains, although he’s not really explaining, he’s just saying words, “and I think, because you’ve mistaken Richie - the _real_ Richie - as your soulmate, it’s going to affect both of them beyond a simple body swap. Try to push you away from Richie and towards Myra.” He gestures with a hand, and then says, “You see?”

Well then. 

Eddie’s an idiot. 

An utter fucking idiot, give the man a gold star, let the practical guy believe - just for a moment - that maybe magic _did_ exist to be on his side rather than something that was only ever going to play him. That maybe, after all his life experience to the contrary, that soulmates _were_ real and life would be so, so simple because there Richie was saying he _wanted_ to be Eddie’s soulmate and all Eddie had to do was reach across a pink bedspread and indicate he wanted it too, because despite all his practicality there was a long-repressed yearning for destiny to take over and make his decisions for him-

That’s if Richie even _had_ wanted that despite all his proclamations, from what Eddie had just overheard from next door. 

He gets to his feet again. This time, Mike doesn’t try to drag him back down. 

“But you can fix them, right?” He’s saying, and he barely knows what he’s going to say until it spills from his mouth. “If that’s what’s happened? You can get them to switch back?” 

“I can try?” Mike says, but he doesn’t sound nearly as certain enough. “I bought some supplies before I came over - if it’s your magic that did this, it’s going to be you that undoes it. I can get it set up, talk you through it.”

“Well, that’s perfect, isn’t it?” Eddie heads to the fridge; starts preparing drinks automatically. It helps to stop him thinking too much, the way the pacing did before. It’s either that or have another near-breakdown, and he’s already had too many of those in the last two days. “Let’s just - let’s just get this over and done with.” 

And then he can divorce Myra, move out of this fucking house filled with his mom’s lingering little touches and memories of a loveless marriage, and then he and Richie can- 

Fuck. Richie. 

His not-soulmate who might love Eddie anyway but might just as easily not be speaking of his own free will if fucking magic is messing with his mind. 

When a hand settles on his shoulder Eddie flinches and nearly drops a glass, but it’s just Bill. Good old dependable Bill, and good old Mike behind him who’s just trying to help. 

“I’m fine,” Eddie says shortly, feeling anything but. Bill squeezes his shoulder anyway and Eddie finds himself relaxing into it. “Mike, can you set up whatever you need? I’ll - I’ll go get the others.” 

He fills the wine glass, drains it himself, then refills it - Myra might yell at him about not having used a fresh glass if she notices the print of his mouth against the rim, but whatever, it’s not like Eddie cares - and grabs a can for Richie. 

“He d-does love you, Eddie,” Bill murmurs, leaning in to press a kiss to Eddie’s temple, and Eddie has a sudden clarifying memory of being a little kid, tripping on the kerb and grazing his knee and shyly letting Bill Denbrough kiss it better. His mom had bought him the fanny-pack that same afternoon on the condition that Eddie use the supplies inside to help scratches rather than kisses from strange boys. “I think he really d-does.”

Eddie’s mom is once again proved wrong; a kiss from Bill helps more than any anti-bacterial wipe could. “Thanks, Bill.”

Drinks in hand, he heads for the loungeroom. 

He doesn’t expect to see Richie and Myra shoulder-to-shoulder, looking down at their hands as if concentration enough will switch them back, but hey, at least they haven’t clawed each other’s eyes out or anything. 

“Sorry if I’m interrupting, but I thought you might like a drink?” Eddie says, and he hates that he automatically looks to Myra before Richie. He hates it even more when he does look at Richie, who’s stood up and is grinning at Eddie with a smile which is so unmistakably his that Eddie momentarily debates the pros and cons of kissing him now, Myra’s body be damned - maybe that would defeat the purpose of the whole soulmate thing, maybe that would fix it without a need for Mike’s ritual if Eddie fully commits to Richie looking like his wife...

Except then Myra plucks the beer from him and says “Thank you, Eds”, and he’d told her even before their first tentative dates that he hated being called Eds (he knows now why he hated it from anyone else after Derry, especially from her), but when she says it in Richie’s voice? 

Eddie gets an unexpected urge to kiss her too.

The universe sure likes fucking Eddie over, huh. 

He doesn’t know why he ever expected any different.


	22. Myra + Richie + Eddie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> stephen: that clown you're afraid of? it's an alien and also this is their enemy the cosmic turtle  
> me: cool. i gotta outdo how weird that is somehow

"What do you _mean_ Eddie’s magic?" 

“It’s not just Eddie,” Mike replies. There’s a click and a flicker of flame from the lighter in his hand as he holds it against one of the incense sticks he’d bought specially. “After defeating It the first time, us Losers - uh, I mean, those of us who were at Eddie’s reunion - we all possess stronger magical energies than average.” 

Myra’s suspected for a while that more went on at Eddie’s supposed ‘reunion’ than ever let on - what kind of middle school reunion only organises itself at the last minute, why had Eddie been so desperate to go, what kind of reunion _possibly_ could end in Eddie’s cheek being stabbed clean through, etc - but she had let it slide when Eddie returned to her, because... well…

He had returned to her, hadn’t he? 

Now that she’s met some of Eddie’s friends from that reunion - now that she _is_ one, technically - she’s absolutely certain more went down than Eddie ever told her. 

“Hold on.” It’s Tozier speaking, sitting upright on the other side of Eddie from where the three of them had been told to sit on the couch. It’s a tight squeeze and Myra is intently aware of the press of Eddie’s thigh against her own, the way his elbow nudges gently against her ribs every time she exhales. “You’re telling me _I’ve_ had the ability to like, use this wish magic stuff myself? All of us have?”

Mike lights another incense stick, places it at the other side of the room. The strong floral scent tickles Myra’s nose, makes her want to sneeze. “Potentially? I dunno, Rich, I’m just spitballing at this point.”

Tozier shrugs. “Whatever. So long as I get my own balls back ASAP.”

“You’re welcome to them,” Myra shoots back before she can stop herself. Across the room Bill quickly covers his mouth to hide a laugh while Tozier scowls, little crows feet wrinkling at the corners of his eyes. 

_I’ll have to fix those when I’m myself again_ , Myra tells herself, making a mental note, ignoring the little part of her that doesn’t want to deal with it at all. Let Tozier keep them, let Tozier keep all of her, so long as the mere touch of Eddie against herself keeps sparking off longings she thought she’d long outgrown. If she shifted her hand _just_ so, where it’s currently resting on her knee, she could touch her pinkie to Eddie’s wrist, a little innocent brush, and maybe he would- 

“Alright,” Mike says, brushing his palms off on his jeans. “I think we’re done. How’re the sigils looking over there, Bill?” 

Bill gives him a thumbs up. 

They’ve had to fully re-adjust the loungeroom; the rug rolled up to expose the lovely hardwood floor and the lounge moved carefully to the centre of the room (Myra had helped Bill carry it, marvelling at her ability to actually lift the thing as opposed to merely shoving it aside whenever she had to hoover). Mike had brought out chalk from his paper bag along with the incense, instructing Myra, Eddie, and Tozier to sit in the centre while he worked with Bill to draw all manner of squiggly shapes directly onto the floorboards (after promising Myra it would wash off easily - Myra likes Mike). 

It certainly all looks suitably magic, especially once the lights are switched off, with the room lit only by a couple of tapered turquoise candles (also from Mike’s supplies) and the dim glow of the streetlamps behind the blinds.

“Eddie? How we feeling?” Mike says. 

“Fine,” Eddie says. He’s been sitting tense between the two of them, like he’s trying to take up as little space as possible. It’s unlike him. “‘m fine.”

“Good!” Mike nods. “Now I need you to, uh, take Myra and Richie’s hands in yours.” 

Wordlessly, Eddie twines his fingers with Myra’s. Myra squeezes his hand gently in return and pointedly doesn’t think about how this might be the last time she gets to hold his hand like this, if Mike’s little ritual does its job. 

Who is she kidding, it’s all she can think about. It’s not even _her_ hand. 

She leans into Eddie. What she should say to him, what the right thing should be to say, from wife to husband, is “I love you”. 

What she whispers instead is: “I’m sorry.”

That gets his attention, a little jerk of his shoulders that she feels all down her spine from where they’re pressed together. 

“Don’t be,” he murmurs back, surprisingly soft as he brushes a line across the back of her hand with his thumb. He’s always been such a delicate man. “But we’ll - we’re gonna need to talk some things over. Whatever happens.” 

Myra knows this. The way Tozier talked to her earlier - she’d seen it in his face, too. Oh, he hadn’t said anything about what Eddie felt towards him, and what he _had_ said was infuriating beyond belief - surely Eddie couldn’t _possibly_ love someone that vulgar, with that stupid impression and the way he obviously hadn’t even _tried_ to keep up with her skincare regime… 

But she can see even from here the way Eddie and Richie are gripping each other’s hands like a lifeline. The way Tozier’s jogging his knee until Eddie leans over to murmur something which eases it to an occasional bob, and Tozier makes her look surprisingly pretty when he gives a small smile towards Eddie in return. It’s enough to make Myra quickly avert her own gaze, because, well. 

Myra’s not used to watching herself from the outside, but even so she’s not sure she’s ever looked at Eddie quite like that. 

xxx

Something’s wrong. 

Richie doesn’t know _what_ exactly is wrong, but Eddie’s been different since Myra turned up. Quieter. Politer. When they were rolling up the rug in the loungeroom Richie touched Eddie’s hand - entirely by accident, for once - and Eddie had given a full-body flinch and let go entirely, forcing them to re-curl part of the rug. 

Eddie’s hand is in his now, tight and unyielding, and Richie wants nothing more than to call this whole thing off and drag Eddie upstairs and demand to know what the _hell_ it is that’s bothering him, but then Eddie whispers “Chill out, Richie Twitchie” and frustration gets temporarily swept away by a wave of affection.

“Aww, I’m really growing on you,” he teases back, and receives a dig of Eddie’s blunt nails into his skin for his troubles. 

He needs this ritual thing-y to work. He needs to be able to speak to Eddie as himself, look him dead in the eyes through the lenses of his glasses (the one thing he might actually miss from this body might be the good vision), and go “hey, what’s up?”, so Richie shoves down the remaining anxiety burning in his chest and lets Mike take the reins. 

Doesn’t stop him making a silent wish of his own in case Mike’s right and he _does_ have magic he can manipulate. 

...or would that be Myra’s now? 

Typical, you finally learn you have semi-magical powers and they get immediately snatched from you.

He makes the wish anyway. 

_I just want Eddie to be happy. I just want him to know he’s loved._

Mike hands each of them a shotglass of - you know what, Richie’s not even going to ask, and surprisingly neither do Myra or Eddie, which just goes to show how desperate they are at this point - and once its downed (tastes woody, whatever it was) he has them repeat a mantra, some specific harmonic hum which is much less cheesy than whatever “turn light into dark” was meant to be. The sweet scent of the incense is cloying, but Richie’s not meant to be noticing that because he’s meant to be focusing on stuff outside of his six senses. Outside of Eddie’s hand in his. Outside of this body. 

_I just want Eddie to be happy._

_I just want him to be…_

His mouth goes numb. 

It goes, like, _Deadlights_ numb, and Richie’s flinging himself back with a strangled cry ripping itself from his throat because _no no NO_ he can’t go through that again and-

When his eyes snap open, they’re not blinded by brilliant light like he expected.

Instead it’s dark, except it’s also _not_ dark - there’s a weird fluorescence to the darkness, a raw velvet warmth that Richie can almost reach out and touch. It’s above and below and all-around, like he’s currently suspended in mid-air, but it doesn’t _feel_ like he’s being suspended. He feels embraced, comforted. Like when he was a kid, falling asleep in front of the tv, and he’d wake up a little groggy and unsure of where he was only to find someone had draped a blanket over him while he slept.

He’s not alone, either. 

Eddie and Myra are floating across from him, but it’s not the Eddie and Myra he’s left behind on the couch of their home. Eddie is younger, somehow, fuller-faced and wearing the same outfit he wore in Derry three months ago to fight It, although thankfully without any of the grime. Myra is herself again but younger too, clad in a white ruffled gown with matching gloves and a veil tucked into her hair. Seeing her causes something to flip in Richie’s stomach without giving him the satisfaction of a physical sensation - a brief moment of vertigo where he thinks _but that’s me!_ before he remembers it’s not. Unless...

He glances at his hands and they’re _his_ again - thank fuck! - except then he blinks and they’re still his hands but smaller, like he’s a teenager again. Before he can really absorb that, they swell back to their normal adult-size.

“What,” he announces to the room (metaphorically speaking), “the _fuck_.”

His voice doesn’t seem to work like normal; it’s less the product of his vocal chords moving and more the result of Richie merely _wanting_ to say something and having it subsequently happen.

“Oh, this is fucking weird,” Eddie mutters, tucking his knees up to his chest and rubbing at his temples. The edges of him are blurred, like Richie’s staring at him without his glasses on - Richie raises a hand to check and no, his glasses are still there. Not sure how he knows, since his fingers tap the arms before passing right through them. 

“Language,” Myra says primly, adjusting her veil with obvious bewilderment. Her edges are even blurrier than Eddie’s and she’s _shifting_ ; her blonde hair turns dark and the outline of rectangular glasses form around her eyes as she says, “What now?” 

“Yeah,” Richie echoes, closing his eyes momentarily to avoid getting dizzy. “What now, Eddie?”

Eddie blurs again; for a moment Richie sees the kid Eddie, the one Richie first fell in love with. “Well…”

xxx

Mike had gone over this with him. 

“I don’t know what it’s going to be like, exactly,” he’d said, trying to keep his voice low so as to avoid the others hearing as they moved furniture around. “But it’s going to be taking place in _your_ head, Eddie, so you’ll have to be the one in control.”

But Eddie’s not. Eddie’s _not_ in control, because if he was in control Richie and Myra would both be solid figures instead of flickering out of focus and smoothing back in with a little more of the other’s features each time.

“Eddie?” Myra says - she’s still wearing her wedding dress but it’s turned mustard-yellow, the same colour as Richie’s shirt in Derry. The one he’s wearing in the photos on Eddie’s phone. “Eddie, what’s happening?”

 _Threads_ , Mike had said, _something about threads_.

Eddie forces himself to keep his eyes open, forces himself to search, even as Richie morphs back into his teen self and then into his adult self with a noticeable curve to his chest and Myra lengthens like that kid from _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory_ , the one who becomes a basketball player. Sure would’ve been nice if Mike had some kind of warning for _that_.

 _There._

A slight pulse of colour behind each of them, like a pull-string. Richie’s a deep red and Myra’s a faint orange. Eddie moves behind them the way one moves in a dream, floaty and effortless, watching as each pulse of colour blends into the other as it moves along an invisible line, growing fainter as it moves further away.

_”It’s the soul’s connection to the body,” Mike says. “You have to switch them back around.”_

It had seemed simple enough when Mike had been explaining it. 

Again,would have been real nice if Mike had included _how_. 

He hovers his hand behind Myra, silently counting intervals between each little burst of orange, and when he thinks he has a pattern, he clasps his hand around the thread at the exact moment it lights up. 

It’s like an explosion. 

_we’re at the altar and he hasn’t run I can’t believe he’s willing to marry me I can’t believe he’s okay with me being unemployed sweet good eddie please don’t leave me please don’t ever leave me say you won’t ever leave me say I love you eddie let me know you need me I don’t know how to do this alone am I going to have to do this alone who will look out for you who will look out for me I don’t know if I can_

Eddie jerks away like he’s just touched a live wire. In a way he supposes he has, if a live wire were composed of someone’s inner self instead of mere electricity.

“Eds!” Richie exclaims, and when Eddie is able to shake off the burning tingle from his hand, he realises that both Richie and Myra look, respectively, like the Richie and Myra he currently knows in full . “Eds, whatever you’re doing, keep at it!”

Eddie nods and glances at Myra, who stares back at him with wide eyes, her hands covering her mouth - and in an instant he knows that she felt it too, whatever passed between them when he touched her thread. She knows _exactly_ what he felt from it - maybe she felt him too. 

He’s almost tempted to call the whole thing off there and then. 

_Eds, it’s okay,_ he says to himself firmly instead. _You’ve got this._

He keeps a hand above Myra’s thread, not quite touching, and hovers the other over Richie’s. 

He steadies himself, counting the pulses, and brings both hands down simultaneously. 

_we’re at the altar we’re in derry he hasn’t run i love him so much I can’t believe he’s willing to share my bed but it’s okay we’re just two friends at a sleepover sweet good eddie brave amazing eddie I need to scream it out but I can’t I_ can’t _unless say I love you eddie eddie you don’t need to love me back just please don’t run from me please don’t I just want you to be happy who will look out for you if I can’t what does she have that I don't if you don’t want me just know I love you I’ve always loved you and let that be enough eds_ please _let that be enough..._

xxx

Myra, Richie, and Eddie open their eyes.


	23. Richie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: hmmm might actually have this finished within two months!  
> also me: accidentally goes on a month-long hiatus after posting that last chapter
> 
> (I had... a very specific way I wanted to end this fic. I've written around 10k of me trying to write that ending and it just... wasn't working. So now, on leap day, we're going back to the way I've been writing this fic all along - letting the story take over and waiting in anticipation myself for what possibly is about to come next. thank you as always for your comments and encouragement on this fic, I never expected this silly little idea to grow as it has)

The first thing he notices before any of his senses kick in is how much his head aches. Like some little merciless _Inside Out_ creature has taken a sledgehammer right between his eyes.

“ _Ow_!” he groans, dropping Eddie’s hand to cradle his temples. “Mike, what was _in_ that stuff-” 

And then he pauses. 

Flexes his fingers a couple of times before his eyes, just to check they’re definitely the ones he’s working with. 

“Testing,” he mutters, prodding the inside of his teeth with his tongue. “Testing one, two… testing one, two, holy _shit_!” 

The last is punctuated by Richie jumping to his feet - _his_ feet, thank _Christ!_ \- and grabbing any part of himself he can reach, checking everything’s in order. Shoulders, arms, stomach, thighs...

“Richie!” Several voices exclaim around him as Richie shoves a hand down the front of his pants. 

“Yep!” Richie laughs, and it rumbles all the way up through his chest - god, _his_ chest, unrestrained and flat and boob-free! “Holy shit it _worked_ , Mike get over here so I can kiss you!” Ignoring Mike’s protests, he lunges at the man in question and flings his arms around him, peppering dramatically loud but 100% sincere kisses to his cheeks. His head’s still throbbing but hey, it’s cool, Richie can move past that because the Trashmouth is _back_ , baby! “And Bill! Big Bill, get your ass over here, I’m gonna kiss you too!”

“I’m g-g-good!” Bill stutters out, but he looks about as relieved as Richie feels as he strategically darts beyond Richie’s reach.

“Aww, c’mon Billiam, what’s a kiss between bros?” Richie teases, arm still slung around Mike’s shoulders as he turns, and-

Whatever else he was going to say dies in his throat because he’s facing the sofa now, and thus facing Eddie. 

Something happened, between humming Mike’s mantra and returning to his own body, but when Richie tries to recall the exact details, it’s like treading water as they float away on a wave beyond his reach. He can’t remember how he forgot Derry that first time (irony at its finest) but he imagines this must be what it felt like. 

All he knows when he meets Eddie’s eyes is that he feels flayed. Exposed. Like Richie has no physical body at all. Like if he lets go of Mike he might flicker and vanish entirely, vaporised by Eddie’s newfound laser vision.

It’s not exactly a _bad_ feeling.

“Heya, Eddie,” Richie says weakly instead.

Eddie stands and walks over to him. It’s like slow motion. Even Myra pauses from where she’s busy taking apart the messy bun Richie put up earlier and - oh yeah, _that’s_ weird, looking at her after only seeing that face in a mirror. Richie moves his hand to the back of his head, fingers curling in his own hair - his _much_ shorter hair; he can barely get a good grip on it. It better grow back for Myra’s sake. 

But that doesn’t seem important now, and neither is the way Mike’s untangled himself from Richie and backed away, because what _is_ important is Eddie, tilting his head up to meet Richie’s gaze - there’ll be time for short jokes later, but Richie can bite his tongue for now - and the way his hand reaches for Richie’s wrist, curls around it, slides down so his fingers hook ever-so-slightly around Richie’s own. The way his other hand touches Richie’s neck, a fluttering hesitant touch before his palm settles heavy and hot.

What’s important, what’s more important than anything, is Eddie looking at Richie the way he did when he drew Richie close on the bed last night, but… _more_.

This’d be so much easier if Richie were Bill or Ben, if he actually had a way with words and didn’t constantly need a team of ghostwriters behind him. He wants the perfect ones to say to Eddie, now and always.

What he says instead, soft, just for Eddie to hear, is: “Hey there, Revolutionary Eddie.”

“Oh my god,” Eddie says, and Richie’s pretty sure whatever Eddie was going to say, it wasn’t this. “Oh my god you _asshole_ , I already told you that doesn’t rhyme!”

“Sure, but that was Myra-me! Me-me can say it again.”

“God, you’re an idiot,” Eddie groans, rolling his eyes. This is good. This is familiar. Not to be sappy or anything, but Richie wants to be the one making those eyes roll for the rest of his life. “You’re the fucking _worst_.” 

“But you love me?” Richie teases. It travels up and out of his throat easily, an automatic return to the tried and tested patterns of his youth, but the Richie of the last twenty-four hours - the Richie who’s bared his deep dark secret love for Eddie to actual living people, to everyone in this room - tenses immediately. 

Yesterday in the diner, Eddie had admitted he didn’t know who he was without other people in his life to fall back on. It had been kind of a big deal for him.

Richie gets that now. Richie’s spent so long locking away the parts of himself he wanted to keep hidden from the rest of the world, including himself, that he doesn’t know how to… he doesn’t know how to _be_. 

Especially now he’s no longer hiding behind the shield of Myra’s body. 

Eddie says, hesitant: “You, uh… you really do, huh?”

There it is again, the feeling - no, the _knowledge_ that Eddie has seen more of Richie than Richie ever wanted Eddie to see. 

And it’s okay, because Richie’s no longer scared to hide himself away. Not from Myra, not from Bill or Mike, not from the person who matters most.

Eddie is so close that Richie can count his eyelashes. Eddie’s thumb presses on the nape of his neck.

God, Richie’s wanted this for twenty-seven years. 

He’ll never stop wanting this.

(Not unless, y’know, there’s another murderous smalltown clown incident buried deep in his subconscious waiting to be unlocked.

But he doubts that).

“I love you,” Richie says. He says it with everything he’s got and he hopes it’ll be enough. “I knew it for sure when we were kids and you broke your arm and I figured it out again three months ago and - fuck, Eds, tell you the truth, I think you’re the only person I’m supposed to love for the rest of my life-”

“Hold on a sec there,” Eddie says abruptly, interrupting Richie’s declaration. “Just… I need to do something first.” 

“Uh,” Richie says, but Eddie only turns his head away, back to the couch. 

Back to Myra.

“Hey,” Eddie says with a forced casualness. “I’m sorry I didn’t get around to telling you this sooner. I’m sorry this is the way it’s come out. I never meant to - I never thought I’d...” 

He pauses. 

Richie squeezes his hand for support, but Eddie doesn’t need it. Eddie’s got this. Richie can see it in the glint of his eyes, in the set of his jaw. 

“Myra,” Eddie says. Bright and bold. Brave like Richie always told him he was. “I can’t be what you want. I can’t give you that. Not anymore. I want a divorce.” 

Myra stands up and for a horrible moment Richie thinks she’s going to charge them, that she’s going to grab Eddie and force him back to her, away from Richie- 

She doesn’t. 

“In that case,” she says, and despite her resolve her voice quivers like the needle of a gramophone, “I think we should see other people.” 

Her gaze flickers from Eddie to Richie, and it strikes Richie that for the first time all three of them - Myra, Richie, Eddie - are on the same wavelength. He might actually have to be grateful to Myra for this. 

He’s even more grateful to Bill touching Myra’s elbow lightly, beckoning to the kitchen, and Mike for gathering up the used shot glasses before following suite. 

The kitchen door swings shut, and leaves Richie and Eddie alone in a candlelit room full of scuffed chalk patterns. 

Kinda romantic, really. 

“Right,” Eddie mutters, turning his full attention back to Richie. “Right, you were saying?”

Richie’s already said everything he’s needed to. Richie loves Eddie Kaspbrak and Eddie Kaspbrak likes him and Richie’s in his own body and they’re alone and he’s fucking _tired_ of hovering around waiting to make a move.

So he kisses him.

Holy shit. Holy _shit_.

There’s a slight rasp of stubble under his palms where he’s cradling Eddie’s jaw in both hands, and the dig of Eddie’s nails against the bare skin of his neck, and Eddie’s mouth is - wow. Okay. Richie’s not even going to _try_ and describe that, he’s only going to keep kissing Eddie for as long as Eddie will allow him, for as long as Eddie kisses him back.

Ironically, it’s Richie who breaks away first to catch his breath, heart pounding like it’s going to ricochet up his ribs and out of his throat.

“Oh,” Eddie says. His mouth is pinker than usual, cheeks flushed against Richie’s pale fingers and Richie gently touches his thumb to Eddie’s scar, just because he can. He’s still wearing the contacts Myra put in and he’ll probably never be able to get them in himself again, so he’s going to enjoy this close-up while he can. “Okay, so I’m definitely gay. Good to know.” 

“I love you,” Richie says again, because now it’s out there in the open, he’s not going to be able to stop saying it. He kisses the scar on Eddie’s cheek, kisses Eddie’s forehead between his eyes, kisses Eddie’s nose. Somehow, miraculously, Eddie doesn’t flinch away; somehow, miraculously, Eddie is the one to kiss Richie’s mouth this time. It’s messy and hot and everything Richie never dared to hope for because it was only ever an impossible dream.

(If this _is_ a dream, if this has only ever been a dream, Richie never wants to wake up).


	24. Bill + Eddie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise! bet you thought you'd seen the last of me

Despite being the unintentional leader of the Losers, Bill’s struggled all his life with finding the right things to say. Even before the unexpected return of his childhood stutter he’d sought comfort in the ease in which he could put words down on paper or a screen and work at them until they became good. Solid. What he wanted to say the first time around. 

Bill sits between Myra and Mike at Eddie’s kitchen table. He lets Myra hold his hand while she gazes unseeingly at the tabletop, watches Mike scribble in his notebook, and wishes he could pull his own trusty notepad out to write something that would break the silence. 

Every now and then, Mike will raise his eyes to Bill as if to ask a silent question. 

_What now?_

Bill will give a minute shrug, trying his best not to jostle Myra. How he’s ended up her lifeline in less than forty-eight hours, he doesn’t understand, and maybe if he could rewind time he would have rethought taking up that offer of Richie’s after announcing his own divorce. 

Audra and Bill weren’t forced to confront unvoiced truths between them due to sudden supernatural intervention - Pennywise notwithstanding - but, ironically, he probably understands what Myra has to look ahead to better than any of them. Maybe that’s what Myra’s clinging to now. 

Again, Mike pauses and meets his eyes. Again, Bill shrugs helplessly.

_I don’t know._

They’re all pretending not to listen in on Richie and Eddie. 

“I’ll have to move, of course,” Myra says suddenly. Like she’s snapped back to herself, the way her, Richie, and Eddie all simultaneously stopped slumping on the couch not long before, while Bill waited with his heart in his throat. “I take the odd Uber shift here and there, but that’s it, and it’s only petty cash. I can’t - can’t afford this.” 

After having only known Myra through Richie’s body, it’s bizarre to hear her actual voice. To listen and look at her and not have to constantly remind himself _right, that’s not Richie_. 

“And we’ll have to sell the furniture too,” Myra continues without pause - she’s rambling, the way she does when she’s inwardly panicking. That’s also bizarre to Bill, to realise he’s somehow picked up enough of Myra’s traits after only a couple of days to recognise them from a body he’s unfamiliar with. “I’ll want to keep the couch, but if I’m moving to a smaller apartment - I have a cousin in the city, well, second cousin, really, but she’ll let me crash with her if I ask, just while I find my feet -” 

Bill’s tempted to let her keep rambling, get it all out of her system until she inevitably breaks, except he catches Mike’s pleading gaze.  


Bill may have lost Georgie nearly three decades ago but his big brother instincts have never left. Maybe that’s why the others look to him as often as they do. 

“Myra,” Bill says, willing her name to leave his mouth smoothly (and thankfully, it does). It’s the first thing he’s said since they left Richie and Eddie to their own devices. “Myra, l-look at me.” 

His tongue slips but it does the job; Myra turns to him immediately, eyes glinting and jaw set in an expression he’s only seen on Richie’s face in the last couple of days, and miraculously says nothing more. 

She’s waiting, Bill realises with a start. Waiting to hear what he has to say. 

Mike, too, has closed his notebook and laid down his pen, folding his arms on the table and leaning in towards them.

Bill swallows, mouth dry. He can’t - he can’t promise anything to Myra. He assumed once they unswitched her and Richie, she would be out of his life, never to be seen again - she’s already caused him and Richie enough trouble, so god knows how long her and Eddie will take to untangle their life together. It’s been complicated enough for Bill and Audra. 

Weirdly, he misses Audra right now. She at least was never shy to speak her mind.

And just like that, the words come. 

“You’ve already made one decision for t-tonight,” Bill says with as much assuredness as he can muster, and Myra’s hand trembles in his own. “Leave it at that. It’s a big one to make.” 

Myra frowns and opens her mouth - ready to argue, probably, ready to remind him of all the many problems racing through her mind which she’ll have to deal with - but this time, Bill’s quick to stop her.

“At least you’re yourself again, r-right?” 

Myra lets go of his hand then - her hand flies to her cheek as if to remind herself that yes, she really is herself again - and a moment later her shoulders slump. 

“Yes,” she mutters, half to herself. “Yes, you’re right.” 

It’s going to be a hard night for her, but he knows from experience it'll only get easier after this, and if he's learned one thing about Myra? She's certainly stubborn enough to make something for herself if she pours even half as much energy into taking care of herself the way she did Richie's body.

And yet - despite himself, despite everything - It’s going to be a hard night for Bill, worrying about her. 

xxx

Sleeping arrangements aren’t as messy as Eddie thought they might be. Myra takes her room back with no arguments, disappearing without so much as a goodnight, and after much persuading Bill and Mike convince Eddie they’re fine with blankets on the floor of the loungeroom, now they’ve wiped the chalk away and put things back in their place. 

Any other occasion, it would have been thrilling to have a sleepover with half of the other six Losers, especially when there was no need to recover from nearly getting shanked by It. They could have sat on Eddie’s rug and passed around a bottle and maybe played Truth or Dare for old times sake, and Richie would choose Dare like he always did, and- 

It’s a missed opportunity, maybe, but Eddie’s busy making up for a lifetime of missed opportunities in the spare bedroom. 

God, if he’d known kissing Richie was going to be like this, he would have done it _years_ ago. Would’ve adjusted that dumb fannypack of his and waited for Richie to choose Dare and announced “I dare you to kiss me” in front of the whole Losers club... 

…okay, so maybe he wouldn’t have done that at thirteen, but maybe he could’ve, like, pressured Richie into writing down his college choices and then even when their memories dropped Eddie could have found the scrap of paper carefully pressed into his favourite comic and applied there against his mother’s wishes and maybe they could have met through a shared class…

...okay, so maybe he wouldn’t have done that, either. But maybe...

Eddie barely realises he’s distracted until Richie pulls away, leaving Eddie’s mouth satisfyingly raw despite Richie currently possessing the cleanest shave Eddie’s ever seen him with in their adult lives. 

“You’re thinking, Eds,” Richie says bluntly, but there’s no heat behind it. There’s just warmth - warmth which spreads hot and deep in Eddie’s chest as Richie tentatively trails his fingers down the curve of Eddie’s cheek, delicate touches over his scar. 

Eddie doesn’t remember how they made it from tossing blankets at Bill and Mike to where they currently are - lying on the bed, facing each other, fully-clothed like eager teenagers - but right now Eddie doesn’t care. What he _does_ care about is how bright Richie’s eyes are (Richie’s _own_ eyes!) and how Richie’s arm tight around his waist, hugging them close, makes him feel more secure than a thousand medications ever could. 

Eddie could say anything right now, and Richie would keep looking at him like that. Richie would keep loving him in a way Eddie didn’t know it was _possible_ to be loved. 

Eddie doesn’t even know how he knows this. 

Maybe it’s that, clown-induced amnesia and lifelong secret crush aside, Eddie _knows_ Richie. And he knows the only ever time he’s seen Richie as open as this was in the chamber beneath the sewers after the Deadlights when he wouldn’t stop clinging to Eddie until long into the morning after, and his confession last night. 

“I’m thinking,” Eddie mutters, and his voice doesn’t sound like it belongs to him (while also sounding more like his own than he ever thought possible), “that you promised you were gonna stop calling me Eds as soon as we got you back.”

Richie grins with the right expression for the right face. “Me, promise not to call you Eds? Nah, that must’ve been your wife.” 

“Fuck you,” Eddie replies, and he surges forward to kiss Richie again, the vibrations of Richie’s laugh rumbling deep in his own chest. 

“Eds,” Richie manages, in the moment they have to break for air, his mouth hot and wet against the corner of Eddie’s. “Eds, Eds, _Eds_...” 

Eddie’s fingers hover over the buttons in Richie’s shirt - but he’s not ready for that, not tonight, and maybe Richie gets that without Eddie saying anything because his grip suddenly tightens and he swings Eddie up and onto him so they’re lying chest-to-chest. Like they’re kids wrestling, except then they go still as if realising what they’re caught up in together. 

They lie like that for a moment, Eddie’s chin on Richie’s chest, Richie’s hand carting through Eddie’s hair to the nape of his neck.

“This is kinda a big deal for me,” Richie says suddenly. “The biggest - I didn’t - I didn’t think - Eds, I never…” 

“I like it when you call me Eds,” Eddie says in a rush, and it’s as big a confession he can make. A secret of his own he’s hidden away for twenty-seven years. “I’ve always liked it. Even when I - Rich, are you _crying?_ ”

“No!” Richie flings an arm dramatically over his eyes. “No, why would I-” 

“Oh my _god_ ,” Eddie interrupts, and he half-rises onto one arm as he uses the other to tug Richie’s arm down. “Look, I wouldn’t have told you if I’d known you’d be a mess about it-”

Richie kisses him again, and maybe it’s a distraction, and maybe his cheeks are wet from something other than tears, and maybe Eddie doesn’t care enough to pull away and point it out because he’s somehow still not sick of kissing Richie Tozier.

 _Ha!_ Eddie thinks triumphantly, head spinning. _Take that, miserable married Eds. You nearly missed out on_ this. 

They’ve made no plans together. They’ve barely spoken, except to puncture the silence in between making out, and certainly not about where this is going to go. What this is going to mean for Eddie in New York, for Richie’s career, for Myra. 

For once, Eddie doesn’t need to worry about what comes next. What he has right here, right now.... 

“Eds,” Richie murmurs against the corner of Eddie’s mouth, and there’s something new in the way he says it. Confirmation of a hard battle won. “You’re thinking again.” 

Eddie huffs. Folds his arms onto Richie’s chest, rests his chin on top of them. Again: when did Richie become so _broad_? “Yeah. Yeah, I wish I had something to call you that has the same damn effect of Eds, or Eddie Spaghetti, or any one of your stupid nicknames.” 

Richie raises his eyebrows, and fuck, Eddie knows _that_ look. There’s a terrible joke incoming. 

“Well,” he drawls, long and lazy, encircling his arms around Eddie so his thumbs press to the bare ridge of Eddie’s spine, where Eddie’s shirt has ridden up above his waist, “there’s another nickname for Richard which doubles as an anatomy lesson, y’know, and once you meet -”

“Beep beep!” Eddie near-shrieks, but then he’s laughing, and Richie’s laughing too, and…

He didn’t even realise he wanted this until today and maybe he’ll think about it differently tomorrow, or the day after, but right now Eddie - cautious, anxious, momma’s boy Eddie Kaspbrak - wants it forever.

Who would've guessed it?


	25. Epilogue: Richie (+ Eddie)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The BIGGEST thank you to everyone that has read, kudosed, and especially commented - when I started out, I honestly thought I'd only get a copy of chapters out of this idea before giving up on this fic. These last couple of chapters might be six months in the waiting, but better late than never!

“Two years!” Richie announces, raising his champagne glass to the sole other occupant of the house. “Two whole years, since Eddie Spaghetti -”

“Richie!”

“Since darling, wonderful, always-reminds-me-to-put-the-bins-out-on-time Eddie-”

“Of _course_ I do, I can’t believe you lived like this for _decades_ -” 

“Two! Years!” Richie barrels forward, shouting now. “Since that wacky weekend-”

“It wasn’t technically-”

“Oh, fuck you too, Eddie-my-love.” Richie downs his glass in one gulp and makes sure to place it carefully on a coaster before bending down to catch Eddie’s willing mouth with his in their most effective tried-and-tested method of shutting each other up. 

It’s been, as Richie’s trying to use his impromptu speech to say, two years since he woke to find himself in the body of Eddie’s wife. Two years since they fumbled through her misplaced wish thanks to Eddie’s innate magic, and wasn’t _that_ a fun phrase for Mike to explain to the other Losers so they were aware of this last lingering trait from Derry. 

(And it’s funny how often that’s come into play since. Not long after Richie’s own _Freaky Friday_ , Tom Marsh seemingly overnight decided to sign away the entire Marsh-Rogan company to Bev. Seven months after that Stan and Patty welcomed twins to a family with no genetic history of multiple births. Richie himself has found the fridge always seems to be well-stocked despite having little memory of buying actual groceries, but maybe that’s just Eddie being on top of things.) 

But more importantly - most importantly - it’s been two years since Richie confessed to Eddie. 

It seems stupidly easy, looking back. All Richie had to do was open his mouth and tell his deepest darkest secret, and - for whatever reason - Eddie had gone, _yeah, okay_.

Sure, the official Coming Out was incredibly nerve-wracking - on his flight back to LA, Richie had impulsively tweeted _@bdenbrough? not my type_ with a bonus rainbow emoji and immediately switched off his social media for a good six months, letting media speculation and his manager take care of the rest. But really? It had been _nothing_ compared to when he sat on Myra’s bed, in Myra’s body, and told Eddie the Truth with a capital T. 

Now, in their shared house which Eddie finally moved into a year ago, Richie still catches himself thinking it must not be real. He must be dreaming, must be caught up in the true Deadlights, and one day he’ll wake and he’ll be alone and terrified. 

But Eddie’s somehow still there, every morning, complaining about Richie’s morning breath, and Richie - 

Richie didn’t know life could be this good. 

He sinks onto the couch next to Eddie, pouring himself another glass and topping up Eddie’s before he swings his legs over onto Eddie’s lap. 

Eddie curls a hand around Richie’s ankle. “Got an update from Bill today. About Myra.” 

“Oh?” 

Eddie and Myra mutually unfriended each other early on in their divorce, and Richie never bothered to stay in touch - it felt weird, seeing her, a touch of disorientation he hasn’t quite shaken even years later. But Myra still emails Bill, and Bill admitted at the latest Losers reunion he’d sent her a signed copy of his latest book (the one that had Eddie and Stan furiously phoning him at three am to yell “what do you _mean_ I died?!”), so that’s where they get their occasional Myra news from.

“She’s got a new guy she’s seeing, apparently.” Eddie swirls the champagne in his glass. “Someone who works at her office.”

“Good for her,” Richie says sincerely, and tries not to think about how that new guy is going to be touching a body Richie temporarily owned. “Hey, Eddie?” 

Eddie seems to snap out of something, glancing towards Richie. “Yeah?” 

“You ever-” The question dies in his throat. _You ever think about her?_ No need to ruin a good night. “Nevermind.”

Eddie frowns slightly, reaches over Richie’s legs to scoot a coaster towards him so he can place his own glass down. “Richie,” he says. “That morning I heard Myra scream and ran upstairs to find her freaking out, telling me she was actually that annoying Trashmouth from Derry?” He waits for a beat. Teasing despite his straight face, the bastard. “It ended up being the best thing that could have happened to me.” 

“Eds…” Richie leans forward to catch Eddie’s cheeks in his hands. The feel of Eddie’s face is so familiar now, it’s hard to forget sometimes what it was like when this was all so new. “You’re too damn cute for your own good, you know that?” 

“So you keep telling me,” Eddie scoffs, and this time when they kiss Richie’s not sure if the fizz is from the champagne on their tongues or just the constant fireworks of his heart. 

Yeah, the Richie of two years ago was right. Drunk _Office_ reruns with Bill have their place, but this? 

It couldn't get any better than this. 

xxx

_...and when you get a chance, please say hi to Eddie for me. Mike too, of course (tell him to send me travel recommendations! Jason and I are thinking of maybe going away together this fall - still taking things slow, I promise, so only for a day or two), and I suppose you can say hi to Tozier, too. I often think about him, even now, especially with how you’ve written him into your novel (excuse me for not being a horror fan, I’m only managing a couple of pages at a time! What a creative mind you have to come up with such horrible things). Curious how being him has shaped me into someone entirely new myself. I wonder if he feels the same about the person he was beforehand? I hope you’re doing well. Love, Myra Wilkes xxx_

xxx

Eddie doesn’t think he’ll ever marry again.

But sometimes he thinks about when it hit him he might like Richie, when he was holding Myra’s hand in his and knowing Richie could feel it, and, well... 

There’s a ring upstairs, tucked neatly into his sock drawer. 

Just in case.


End file.
